


Shadowed Lives

by Meltha



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Draco/Hermione pre-relationship, F/M, Friendship, alternate POV, first year
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-09-20
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2017-10-23 21:55:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 71,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/255431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meltha/pseuds/Meltha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco’s journey to Hogwarts will begin soon, but first he is confronted with a few shocking facts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Revelations

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All characters are created by J. K. Rowling, a wonderful writer whose works I greatly enjoy. I have borrowed them for a completely profit-free flight of fancy. Kindly do not sue me, please, as I am terrified of you. Thank you.

Draco Malfoy was not a nice boy. Few people would care to argue the opposite, and those few wouldn’t have believed it themselves. From the age of four, he had learned the none-too-subtle art of getting his own way, whether it be by threatening the house-elves of the Malfoy estate or via a resoundingly loud temper tantrum. One of his earliest memories was of clocking Dobby over the head with a sofa cushion when he was not permitted to fly his toy broomstick near a Muggle village a few miles from home. He was more spoiled than an egg left in the sun for six months straight, he knew it, and he enjoyed it. After all, he had been raised to believe he was better than anyone else around him with the exception of his father and mother, and of course the ever-present shadow of the Dark Lord, though he was sometimes unsure if he even believed he existed. Lord Voldemort seemed like a fairytale monster to him, one of the dangerous ones that lurked in the corners of dim, forgotten passages that only incredibly stupid people would try to enter, but he was relatively safe to people who supported him, provided that they were never idiotic enough to cross him. In any case, it didn’t concern him.

On this particular summer afternoon, Draco stood before the mirrored wardrobe in his bedroom, checking his reflection from all angles. He would be having dinner with his father this evening, quite a rare occurrence. Lucius Malfoy was an imposing figure, and Draco didn’t like to feel over-shadowed as a rule. But in his father’s case, he was particularly wary of being imperfect. Lucius’s sharp eyes tended to find any fault present with alarming speed, dismissing as worthless anything or anyone who didn’t live up to his extremely lofty ideals. For reasons Draco didn’t care to think too deeply about, he wanted to meet those goals.

His mother, Narcissa, was another matter. She was, of course, perfect. His father would never have married her otherwise. She was impeccably beautiful, perfectly well bred, from an ancient and pure family, and utterly aristocratic. But there was something about her that was lacking in his father. She smiled at Draco sometimes, a real smile filled with genuine affection. His father had never looked at him that way, and Draco knew he never would. It was the reason he worshipped his mother, though he was never obvious about it. Others might look at her and see a cold marble statue that was a touch too perfect for its own good, but to him, she was his mother, and that was enough.

With a sigh, he carefully straightened the hem of his dress robes, removing one stray piece of lint as he did so. He looked at his reflection critically in the mirror. He was a black figure against a background of silver and deep green extravagance. His room had been decorated in the colors of Slytherin since before his birth. It was expected that he would be admitted to that house. His expression clouded for a moment. In a few short days he would know for certain if he was going to uphold that family tradition. If he didn’t… well, he would, and that was all there was to it. His features returned to their carefully schooled, impassive smugness.

“Perfection,” he said decidedly.

“Indeed, Master Malfoy, sir,” came a squeaky voice from behind him.

“What is it, Dobby? I didn’t send for you,” he said, a trace of irritation in his voice.

“Please, young sir, your father is wanting you to come downstairs for dinner now. He asks you to remember that he does not like to be kept waiting,” the house-elf said, crouching in an effort to be as servile as possible.

“You may tell him I will be down directly,” Draco said, checking his shoes one last time for any spots.

“Very good, Master,” Dobby said, then sped away as fast as his short legs could carry him, which was really quite surprisingly fast.

Tonight was no ordinary dinner. In a little over a month he would be on the Hogwarts Express, heading off to school for the first time. Up to now, he had been schooled exclusively by tutors. No Malfoy was going to study with other children until it was absolutely necessary. If he had made an error, it would have become known, and the family name would suffer as a result, or so his father had told him. As a result, Draco had never actually been in the company of other boys his own age. The thought of being around other young wizards and witches was delightful to him, but at the same time, he couldn’t help feeling nervous, a most decidedly un-Malfoy-like emotion. He didn’t want to make a fool of himself, and he had little practice in dealing with others.

By this time, Draco had stalled as long as he could, and with a sigh, he swept out of the room in as close an imitation of his father’s trademark imperial stride that his eleven-year-old legs could manage, intent upon making his way to the dining room before his father became truly angry. The hallway was dimly lit by hovering candles, as always. A carpet of green so dark it may as well have been black muffled his footsteps, making him feel almost like a ghost. When he reached the broad, curved stone steps that descended to the mansion’s lower level, the clatter of his booted feet on the hard surface was almost painfully loud, and he winced, realizing he still hadn’t mastered the trick of moving with predatory silence.

Another several chambers, each as dimly lit as the last, opulent yet cheerless, and he was standing at the opening to the dining room. He paused outside the door to straighten his robes once more, then nodded brusquely to a house-elf who was almost completely obscured in the folds of velvet drapery that hung from the door frame.

“Master Draco Malfoy,” announced the piping voice, and he walked into the room.

“Good evening, Draco,” his mother said, and while her voice was collected enough, her usually flawless skin showed signs of dark circles beneath her eyes. She obviously hadn’t slept well. She was also wearing a dress of stunning silver satin, one he had always thought looked particularly wonderful on her.

“Good evening, Mother,” he said politely, approaching her chair, bowing, and then kissing her cheek.

“Draco,” came a voice from the other end of the exceptionally long dining table. His father sounded almost bored—almost, but not quite. Draco knew the tone well enough to realize there was a slight undercurrent of malice present. Obviously, he’d kept his father waiting just a bit too long.

“Good evening, Father,” he said, bowing again and then taking his place at one of the long sides of the table between his parents. “I’m sorry for the delay, but one of the house-elves hadn’t polished my shoes properly. I didn’t want to appear slovenly.”

It was a complete lie, but in the Malfoy household the ability to lie smoothly was a virtue.

“Is that so?” his father said, tilting his head and half-closing his eyes. “Which one?”

“Oh, they all look the same to me,” Draco said off-handedly. In truth, as much as he protested that he didn’t really care what happened to the house-elves, he knew that if he provided a name, undoubtedly the elf in question would be given a particularly terrible punishment with his father’s current mood, and the idea of that gave him an uncomfortable feeling. “I can’t tell one from another even yet.”

His father nodded in elegant agreement, then clapped twice quite loudly, signaling dinner was to be served.

“I do hope your tardiness has not spoiled the food,” his father said as he placed a jacquard silk napkin across his lap.

House-elves quickly appeared, carrying silver trays heaped with mounds of fresh salad, steaming bowls of tomato soup, and then a roast with potatoes and carrots, Draco’s favorite. He stole a quick glance at his mother as it was brought to the table, and she graced him with one of her rare smiles for a brief moment. He knew she was the one who had thought to order his favorite prepared, but he said nothing about it. Through all this no one spoke, and the clattering of utensils against china was the only sound to be heard. However, partway through his roast, Lucius broke the silence.

“I have a few words of advice for you,” he said. “I know that you will do your best to live up to the family reputation at Hogwarts. Personally, I would rather that you had gone to Durmstrang than fall under the auspices of Dumbledore, but…”

He paused and glanced at his wife, who returned his gaze.

“Well, what’s done is done. In any case, there is no doubt that you will be put into Slytherin. Should any other outcome happen from the Sorting, you are to let us know immediately by post, and you will be removed from the school forthwith. Is that understood?” he asked, fixing a look on him.

“Yes, Father,” he replied, slicing a potato in half with his fork.

“Good,” he said. “Your companions have already been arranged. Gregory Goyle and Vincent Crabbe will be in your year and will almost certainly be placed in your house. They are both of fine, old, pure-blood families, of course, and their fathers are…”

He paused, and a look was exchanged between Lucius and his wife.

“…friends of mine. I believe you will find them to be very accommodating.”

Draco couldn’t help it. He stared at his father, a piece of meat dripping from the fork that was halfway to his mouth. “You’ve picked my friends for me?”

Lucius glared at him quietly. “You do not want to mix with the wrong sort, Draco, and you’ve had no chance for practice in that regard.”

“But what if I can’t stand them!” he said, his voice rising.

“Draco, control your tone,” his mother snapped quickly. “Your father knows what is best.”

For a moment, Draco considered a full-blown tantrum, but decided that it wasn’t the best time.

“Yes, Mother. I apologize,” he said, averting his eyes from either of them.

“Harry Potter is rumored to be in your year,” Lucius continued. “Undoubtedly, he has been secreted away in a wizarding household since the incident with the Dark Lord, and he most likely has great power. Power is a very important thing, Draco, as you will come to understand. Do not make an enemy of that boy, but it is best not to place one’s trust in anyone who may cause problems in the years ahead. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Father,” he said.

“Good. Now, there is one other matter I wish to discuss with you,” he said as a house-elf took his plate away while another quickly replaced it with a chocolate soufflé.

“Lucius,” said Narcissa from the other end of the table, her voice suggesting extreme displeasure, “this may not be the right time. He’s really quite young.”

Lucius regarded her coolly for a moment, but then sniffed in a way that meant he had come to his own decision on the matter; “We spoke of this earlier, and it’s been decided.”

She glared at him but didn’t press the point further.

“As I was saying, Draco, there will be another highly important contact you will be making at Hogwarts. Another student who has been admitted this year is Miss Pansy Parkinson,” Lucius said.

“Who’s she?” Draco asked, not particularly curious.

“Your betrothed,” his father said.

Draco blinked.

“My what?” he asked, his jaw falling open.

“Your marriage within a pure-blood line was arranged within a few months of your birth,” Lucius said. “It’s the usual method within the elite circles. There are so few candidates left with the proper credentials that these matters are best handled as quickly as possible.”

“Are you telling me I’m engaged?!” Draco said, nearly choking.

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Lucius said smoothly, “and you have been since you were six months old.”

“Who the bloody hell is Petunia Parkinstein?” Draco spat.

“Draco!” his mother said in irritation. “I realized this is a shock to you, but please watch your vocabulary!”

“I just found out I’m getting married off to some girl I’ve never heard of before. I think I’m taking it fairly well!” he said loudly.

“Draco!” his father said, his voice rising, and that was enough to snap Draco back into himself.

“Yes, Father,” he said, though it was far from in the most obedient tone.

“Pansy Parkinson,” Lucius said, pronouncing the words particularly distinctly, “is from one of the most illustrious families in Europe. Her ancestry can be traced back to ancient Rome, and her family’s fortune is very impressive.”

“What does she look like?” he asked apprehensively.

“I’ve no idea,” Lucius said, dabbing his mouth with his napkin. “I assume she will be acceptable.”

“You don’t know?” Draco said, horrified. “Does she know about this?”

“Her parents are telling her this evening,” Narcissa said. “I would rather have allowed the two of you to meet first and become acquainted, but your father disagreed. I’m sure she’s just as stunned as you are.”

“Yeah, but look what she’s getting,” Draco said quite seriously. “She won’t have anything to complain about, but how do I know she doesn’t look like a cross between a Flobberworm and a garden gnome?”

“If there is anything severely wrong with her, then the agreement will become void,” Lucius said icily. “Otherwise, you have the peace of mind of knowing that your future is entirely taken care of.”

A biting remark was on the tip of Draco’s tongue, but his father looked so entirely at the end of his patience that he decided now was not the best time to press the subject further.

“Yes, Father,” he said.

“You needn’t worry, Draco,” Lucius replied as he stood to leave the table. “After all, this is how your mother and I were brought together, and our marriage has turned out splendidly, I should say. I will be away on business for a few weeks beginning tomorrow, so this will be the last time I see you before your departure. You will comport yourself with the dignity of a Malfoy.”

Draco remained in dumbfounded silence as his parents left the room together, leaving him alone with half a plate of chocolate soufflé and a whirlpool of thoughts.

“Dobby!” he yelled a few moments later.

“Yes, sir,” the house-elf said, appearing at his side. Though Draco would never admit it, Dobby was actually his favorite.

“I’m going for a walk. I need some air,” he said and threw his napkin on the floor.

“It is very dark tonight,” Dobby said.

“I don’t care,” he sighed. “Just be sure the lamps in the rose garden are lit.”


	2. Perspectives

Roses were Draco’s favorite flowers. Not only were they gorgeous, but they had thorns. They were capable of defending themselves against intrusions, and he respected that.

The rose garden of the Malfoy estate was very large, hidden behind a high stone wall. One of his illustrious ancestors had originally built a large house on the spot, but it had burned down (it was rumored he had been drinking too much fire whiskey and the flames beneath his cauldron had sent the drapes up in a blaze), and while the blackened stone walls remained, the thatched roof had burned away completely, leaving a kind of courtyard that was open to the sky above. His great-grandmother had gotten the idea of planting roses there, thinking the crumbling walls created a charming effect.

Every single rose in the garden, and there were thousands of them, was a perfectly pure white. Even roses in the Malfoy house had to be pure-blooded. Since it was night, they had closed more tightly against the darkness, but the full moon overhead and the torches burning in brackets on the old walls made them glow in an almost unearthly way. With a loud sigh, Draco dropped onto a bench near the fountain at the center of the garden. The beds of flowers radiated out from it like spokes on a wheel, and he sat silently for a while, trying to process everything he’d learned.

“I don’t believe I’m betrothed,” he finally said aloud. As he’d had very little company other than house-elves, he’d developed a habit of speaking to himself. “What is this, the sixteenth century?”

He kicked at the white gravel path in front of him, knowing it would scuff his shoes and deciding he really didn’t care. His father wasn’t around to see them, anyway. Suddenly, he was hit with a very simple thought that hadn’t occurred to him before. He was going to be away from home, and away from his father’s watchful eye, for months. Whatever he wanted to do, he could. With a smirk, he leaned back against the bench and gazed up at the stars, almost feeling himself master of his own destiny, at least for a while.

“Excuse me,” said a voice from behind him.

Draco promptly jumped off the bench and whirled around. Standing a few feet behind him was an old man he had never seen before.

“What are you doing here?” he yelled, slightly alarmed. “This is private property, you know!

“I’m dreadfully sorry to have disturbed you,” the man said, and as he came closer Draco could see that the torchlight was glinting off his half-moon spectacles. “I’m afraid I couldn’t hit upon another way of speaking with you confidentially.”

“Who are you?” Draco asked, looking out of the corner of his eye and wondering why he didn’t see the usual battalion of house-elves hovering just out of sight to do his bidding if he called.

“I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts,” the old man said as he took the seat Draco had just vacated.

Draco looked at him appraisingly. Yes, he matched the pictures he’d seen on the Chocolate Frog cards.

“Okay,” he said, keeping his distance. “Suppose you are. What are you doing here, and where are my servants?”

“They agreed to give me a few minutes to speak with you in privacy,” Dumbledore explained as he dug through one of his pockets, eventually finding a box of lemon drops, extracting one, and popping it in his mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry; I don’t wish to be rude. Sweet?”

“No,” Draco said, still unnerved. “What do you want to speak with me about?”

“Hogwarts,” he replied, looking around the garden interestedly. “This is a lovely spot, I must say.”

“What about Hogwarts?” Draco asked, and though he knew he wasn’t being terribly polite to someone quite important, he gave himself credit for not popping the geezer in the nose.

“Mister Malfoy,” he said, and it took Draco a moment to realize the name was being applied to himself, “I am coming to ask you for a rather difficult favor.”

“What sort of favor?” Draco said, his eyes narrowing.

“You have gotten your letter of admission from the school, have you not?” Dumbledore asked.

“Yes,” he said, “weeks ago.”

“Good,” Dumbledore said. “And what are your feelings regarding going away to school for the first time?”

“What business is that of yours?” Draco said before he could stop himself.

Dumbledore blinked once, then smiled. “Quite right, Draco. I am indeed a bit nosy, I’m afraid. But I really must ask you to tell me the truth.”

“It sounds okay, I suppose,” Draco said, and Dumbledore gave him a particularly piercing look that made him feel the man knew a great deal more than what Draco had just told him.

“Being apprehensive is entirely normal,” Dumbledore said quietly, “but I am sorry to say I am going to have to burden your mind a bit more than the usual first year would experience.”

“How?” Draco asked.

Dumbledore sighed, and he suddenly looked much older than before. Good God, Draco thought, he had to be pushing a hundred at least.

“I am sure you have heard of Voldemort,” Dumbledore said.

It was now Draco’s turn to blink. “You just said the Dark Lord’s name!”

“Yes,” Dumbledore agreed. “I find all this He Who Must Not Be Named business quite pointless, really.”

Draco silently agreed with him, and his estimation of him rose a notch. It seemed stupid not to call Voldemort by his right name, but since he’d been able to talk he’d been told never to call Voldemort anything other than the Dark Lord or He Who Must Not Be Named. Personally, he found it all rather silly, but as it was one of the few rules that he would be punished quite severely for breaking, he had learned to bite his tongue.

“What about him?” Draco asked.

“I have reason to believe that he is attempting to regain his former power,” Dumbledore said.

“You can’t be serious,” Draco said, laughing.

“I’m afraid I am very serious,” Dumbledore said, fixing him with another penetrating look, “deadly so.”

“He’s dead,” Draco said in what he hoped was a firm voice.

“He’s not,” Dumbledore countered. The absolute conviction behind those two words was very unsettling. “I realize this is disturbing, Draco, but don’t make the mistake of thinking you can simply close your eyes and pretend it isn’t happening. Far too many have made that choice. You, however, are in the position of being able to aid us in preventing a calamity which would affect thousands of people. I’m asking for your help.”

Draco remained silent, not really certain what to say.

“What I’m asking,” Dumbledore continued, breaking the silence, “is for you to keep your eyes and ears open in regards to anything unusual that is happening at Hogwarts. You will almost certainly be a member of Slytherin when term begins, and it would be of great worth to those of us who want to stop Voldemort if you could give us any information that would benefit our cause. I beg you to consider it.”

“Why me? Why not someone else?” Draco asked.

“Because I believe you have tasted a bit of what life is like under the old regime in your home, and perhaps it is not to your liking,” Dumbledore replied.

Draco looked at him for a long moment, and then he couldn’t help it. He began to laugh loudly.

“My father said you were a bit daft, but this is ridiculous! You want me to toss away my future, my family, my way of life, tattle to teachers about what the sons and daughters of some of the most powerful people in the wizarding world are saying over breakfast, and in return I get what? So what if the Dark Lord does take power again? He’ll wipe out the mudbloods and the disloyal. If what you say is true and he is getting powerful again, why would I want to put my head on the chopping block?”

“Why indeed,” Dumbledore said softly but not unkindly as he got to his feet. “Perhaps someday in the future you may change your mind.”

“I wouldn’t bet on that,” Draco mumbled.

“I am sure you understand, though, that I cannot have you telling anyone else about this conversation. I am afraid I can’t trust you, so…,” he produced a wand with more speed than Draco would have dreamed possible, “ _obfirmotem secretas_.”

A pale violet light whizzed from the tip of Dumbledore’s wand and hit Draco’s chest.

“What was that?” he said angrily.

“A spell that will prevent you from communicating the contents of our conversation to anyone except myself unless I choose to break the enchantment,” Dumbledore said, and he looked at the boy sadly. “I am sorry. I shall now leave you to your thoughts. If you should ever reconsider your decision, do let me know at once. I realize what I asked of you is a great sacrifice. Unless you truly understand why you should make it, I cannot expect you to undertake such an unpleasant task. Goodbye, Draco.”

Dumbledore turned to go, but then paused and faced him again.

“By the way,” he said, a smile tugging around his lips, “you are not yet in my school, but once you are, realize that it is not acceptable to speak to your instructors in the same manner you have just addressed me. If you do, I believe you will find yourself in detention for most of the next seven years. Have a good term.”

With a small popping noise, he apparated away from the Malfoy manor, leaving Draco standing alone in the rose garden. He raised his eyebrows in disbelief.

“Well, for once I can honestly say my day hasn’t been boring,” Draco muttered, then started up the gravel walk to the house, too tired to think anymore tonight.


	3. Preparations

A week passed in relative quiet at the Malfoy manor. Narcissa remained busy with a variety of social engagements, so Draco was left to his own devices. His broomstick became his almost constant companion. He spent his days zooming over the spacious grounds of the estate, practicing abrupt stops and switches in direction, performing aerial acrobatics as though he could somehow leave the rest of the world behind if he could just go fast enough.

Once he pointed the tip of the broomstick directly at the sky, rising as close to vertically as he could, putting distance between himself and the earth below until even his highly expensive model couldn’t take the pressure anymore and began to vibrate dangerously. He looked behind him and saw the manor as a tiny speck beneath him. Gritting his teeth in a particularly ferocious grin, he swung the handle hard to the right, sending the broomstick hurtling back towards the earth at a speed and angle that didn’t even seem possible. The wind whistled through his blond hair, and he shut his eyes, lifted his hands off the handle, and clung to the broom with only his knees and crossed ankles. For one moment he felt almost entirely free, but then he realized that the ground was coming towards him rather faster than he had counted on, and he was forced to pull up quickly. As it was, he barely skimmed the well-manicured lawn of the formal gardens with his trainers. Smiling smugly, he landed beside the kitchen door and went back inside.

“Sir, that appeared most dangerous,” said a high voice coming from behind one of the tall cabinets.

“That’s because it was, Dobby,” Draco said as he sat at a counter near the sink, propping his broom carefully in a corner before he did so.

“But, sir, why would you do something that might cause you harm? Mistress would be greatly grieved if anything happened to you,” Dobby said as he came into view, his arms filled with pots to be scrubbed from lunch.

“I suppose so, but it just felt so good to be free for a second,” Draco said, watching as the house-elf nearly toppled over from the column of cookware he was carrying. “You know what I mean?”

“No,” Dobby said, putting the dishes into the sink carefully, “Dobby does not know what it is like to be free.”

“I suppose you wouldn’t at that,” Draco agreed, though he didn’t sound terribly bothered by it. “I’m starved.”

“Dobby will fix sir a toasted cheese sandwich right away,” the elf replied, hurrying off in a way that suggested he was afraid what might happen if he didn’t make the food appear immediately.

Draco remained seated by the sink, staring listlessly out the window at the grounds beyond. Sunset was now painting the smooth lawn with an orange light, the shadows from the countless statues that dotted the estate lengthening and looking like strange runes whose meaning he didn’t know yet. Darkness was falling, he thought. He spared a moment to think about Dumbledore’s appeal from the previous week. The geezer’s magic had proved to be very good indeed. Draco had attempted telling one of the house-elves about what had happened but found himself unable to say anything at all. He even tried writing down what Dumbledore had said and hadn’t succeeded in so much as touching the paper. It was aggravating, but impressive.

In less time than even Draco expected, Dobby stood before him with a still-steaming cheese sandwich, the bread grilled to exactly the degree of crustiness he preferred and the cheese neither too solid nor so hot it would burn. It smelled divine. Draco grabbed it hungrily and downed it in four bites.

“Is master still hungry? Would he like more?” Dobby asked immediately.

“No,” Draco said off-handedly as he left, taking his broomstick with him. Dobby was an uncommonly good cook, he thought. He hoped Hogwarts would have servants who were equally talented at catering to his every whim.

“Sir? Your mother has also stated that she wishes to speak with you,” Dobby called after his retreating form.

Draco waved his hand in acknowledgement that he had heard and quickly walked the corridors to his parents’ rooms. They were naturally much larger than his own room, and while green, silver, black and gray were the dominant colors of the entire house, his mother’s study used somewhat more pastel shades than were found elsewhere. He knocked on the closed door, and she responded with a quiet “Enter.”

“You wished to see me, Mother?” Draco asked as he entered.

“Yes, Draco,” she said, drawing her chair back from her desk with a small sigh. “You know that your schoolbooks and other supplies have already been sent to Hogwarts and will be waiting in your room for your arrival.”

“Yes, Mother,” he said. “Are we sure the house-elves have gotten the list correct?”

“If they have not, I will tend to the problem,” she said, and Draco didn’t envy any servant who might have made a mistake. “However, the matter of your school robes needs to be attended to. Madam Malkin’s would be the appropriate shop for the occasion. I’ll not have my son wandering the halls of Hogwarts in ill-fitting, off-the-rack robes. We’ll go to Diagon Alley tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you. I will look forward to it,” Draco said, then bowed and turned to leave.

“Draco, wait,” his mother called, and he quickly faced her again. “Are you… I realize that some of your father’s announcements at dinner last week were rather startling.”

Silently, Draco thought this was the understatement of the year, but aloud he only said, “A bit.”

“Please try not to concern yourself too much,” she said. “Goyle and Crabbe aren’t the only friends you are permitted to make, and as to Pansy Parkinson, remember that you don’t need to worry about marriage until after you graduate from Hogwarts, which is years away. Going off to school for the first time is quite enough to deal with for now.”

Draco nodded in agreement.

“I’m sure you’ll do just fine your first year,” she said firmly. “You may go now. I shall see you in the morning.”

“Thank you, Mother. Goodnight,” he said, then closed the door.

Draco went to bed early that night, but he didn’t sleep well. Tomorrow he would be in Diagon Alley. While he had been trotted out for brief appearances at the homes of some of the most important witches and wizards in the country, he’d never actually gone to Diagon Alley before. It was something almost normal, and for him that was a novelty. He reasoned that there would be any number of other students there preparing to go to Hogwarts, and he might actually have the chance to meet some of them. Although he didn’t like to admit it, he was nervous at the thought of speaking with them. Appearing ridiculous was not an option.

The next morning Draco was out of bed and dressed by 6:00. Butterflies were trembling in his stomach, but he was still hungry. Quietly, he crept down the stairs and snuck into the kitchens, knowing at least a few house-elves would be up and preparing for their daily work.

“Is there anything to eat?” he asked as he entered.

“We is sorry, sir, but the kettle is only just put on,” said one of the elves, Stuffy. He looked rather bleary. “We can get you something soon, though.”

“Toast, strawberry jam, bacon, fried tomatoes, and tea,” he said, then turned on his heel to wait in the dining room.

Empty dining rooms always seem to have a sense of gloom about them. Maybe it’s because every piece of furniture in the room is turned so it faces other people, and with no one present their absense is felt even more accutely. Draco sat in his customary chair and drummed his fingers on the table, feeling progressively more ill at ease. It seemed to take forever for the elves to bring out his requested meal, and when they did, his mother still had not appeared at the table. Already in a bad temper because he loathed eating alone, Draco angrily attacked his breakfast, throwing the silverware onto the plate when he was done and getting up in a huff.

“Have you seen my mother this morning?” he asked another house-elf, Stipple, as he strode back towards the stairs.

“Yes, sir,” she responded quickly. “She has been in the garden since before sun up.”

“She has? Why didn’t anyone tell me?” he said, stomping in the direction of the door and leaving before the elf could reply.

“Mother!” he yelled loudly as he walked outside and scanned the grounds quickly.

At the far end of the lily pond he could just make out her shape sitting at a table and staring into the distance. She turned at the sound of his voice and waved towards him. He lightly jogged the distance and realized that she was already dressed for the day and had an empty plate in front of her.

“Good morning,” she said with a yawn.

“Didn’t you sleep well?” he asked.

“I slept adequately. I simply don’t sleep as soundly when your father is away,” she explained as she stood and began walking in her characteristic glide back towards the mansion. “I needed fresh air for clear thoughts.”

Draco looked at his mother closely.

“Is there anything the matter, Mother?” he asked, a note of concern in his voice.

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye and sighed briefly.

“I may be a Malfoy, but I am also a mother sending her only child off for several months in just a few days time. I’m entitled to a little consternation, I should say,” she said, not meeting his gaze. “Things are going to change dramatically here.”

“I suppose so,” he agreed, rather stunned by her unusually frank confession.

“Are you quite ready for our shopping excursion?” she asked, and her tone suggested the topic should be dropped.

“Yes, Mother,” he said. “We’ll be using Floo powder?”

“You will be,” she said, “but I simply can’t abide the soot. I shall Apparate and meet you there. Is that understood?”

Draco nodded once succinctly.


	4. Meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For notes and disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue taken from _Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone_ , American edition, chapter five.

Draco departed from the dining room fireplace, which was crackling away in spite of the heat of the last day of July. He took a handful of Floo powder from the gold urn offered to him by Stipple and cast it into the flames. Immediately, they became as green as almost everything else in the house.

“Diagon Alley,” Draco said as clearly as he could before stepping into the fire. He always rather detested this part of the experience. No matter how often he told himself that no wizard should fear a thing like Floo-infused fire, there was a part of himself that couldn’t help recoiling from the flames a bit, and he loathed anything that made him feel less than master of himself. What his father would think if he saw his son’s foot quivering, even if it was barely preceptible, as he took a perfectly normal step, he didn’t like to think.

The spinning sensation that always followed was no less unpleasant. Draco had been travelling by floo powder for years, of course, but he had never yet managed to get rid of the nausea that accompanied each trip with all the spinning and flashing lights. A Malfoy might not openly admit defeat or fear, but regardless of what had been ingrained into him from the cradle about his proud place in society, he couldn’t help going green. At least, he thought sarcastically, his skin tone would match the family crest when he exited.

With a loud pop and a small explosion of ash, Draco came to a stop and climbed out of the fireplace of one of the stores on Diagon Alley. He had never been there before, though he had read often enough about it in the _Daily Prophet_ , so he had no idea where he was specifically. He supposed it would be best to wait for his mother to Apparate, but as there were several witches and wizards openly staring at him from around the room, he felt rather self-conscious.

Glancing around, he realized he was in a brightly lit little shop. Black and white marble squares covered the floor like a giant chessboard, and little gilt tables and chairs were dotted over it almost haphazardly, as though a great many people had already come and gone there today. But it was the scent that finally clued him in to where he was: chocolate, strawberry, toffee, caramel, the sugary scent of cones and vanilla whipped cream. Well, he thought with a grin, if mother is delayed, perhaps I’d best buy myself an ice cream cone.

Dusting himself off, he strolled to the large mahogony and white marble bar and carefully sat himself on one of the stools, checking it first to be sure nothing on it would soil his robes. He squinted up at the list of flavors listed on the board on the wall in front of him before rapping his knuckles firmly on the countertop.

“Orange sherbet with chocolate sauce,” he ordered imperiously to the man behind the counter.

“Fine, boy,” he said, “only you’ve got a half dozen others ahead of you. You’ll need to wait your turn.”

“Oh,” said Draco, suddenly grateful that the ash and nausea were covering what he felt sure was probably a blush. “Right.”

He very nearly added the word “sorry” after it, but quickly remembered that his father had taught him never to use that word with anyone who wasn’t his social equal and then only the most extreme of circumstances for fear of tarnishing his authority over his betters. Draco carefully peered at the older man, his white robes dotted with sundae sauce and sprinkles, and knew at once that he was no one higher than himself. And yet… he had a strangely pleasant face. He seemed almost likable. Draco almost wished that he could apologize to him, but instead he twisted the stool around to view the rest of the room, ending the conversation and the embarrassing experience by turning his back to the man. After all, judging by his parents’ behavior, this was the most appropriate and acceptable response.

Draco had rarely seen so many witches and wizards packed into one place before, particularly ones his own age. He began to create stories about each one in turn to amuse himself. At one table in the corner sat twin girls with long black hair and dressed in matching black satin robes, both of them very pretty, with their mother. He could hear their giggling from across the room, and he had to admit they sounded pleasant. Those, he decided, most be pure-bloods; briefly he wonder if one of them might be Pansy.

His eyes drifted onwards to another table where an older woman with spectacles sat by herself, a large shopping bag beside her with the words “Flourish and Blotts” emblazoned across it in scarlet. She was eating a chocolate sundae while reading a book titled _Contemporary Methods in Magical Education_. She was so engrossed in her reading that her spoon kept missing her dish entirely, occasionally clicking against the tabletop.

“Spinster,” Draco thought to himself, “maybe a Hogwarts teacher. Definitely not a Slytherin for all she’s dressed in green, though.”

Each group reached his attention in turn: a woman and several children all with red hair crowding around a single table and sharing one enormous sundae between them (obviously poor, though strangely happy, he thought), a young man sitting with a charmingly pretty witch at another table and gesticulating wildly with his spoon, inadvertantly spattering the tiny little old man behind him with Butterbeer and strawberry sauce (not married, and she doesn’t look terribly impressed by him), and there, at a tiny corner table in the back… someone he recognized.

Dumbledore himself was sitting by himself, obviously enjoying his hot fudge sundae and taking no notice of Draco. There was a package next to him from some place called Herrod’s, and he could see the handle of an umbrella sticking out of the top of the bag. As though he were suddenly aware of someone watching him, Dumbledore looked up from his ice cream and directly at Draco. Draco wasn’t quite sure what to do, but Dumbledore smiled in a way that seemed to suggest he needn’t do anything at all, then went back to eating his sundae. It was odd, Draco thought, to see the Headmaster of Hogwarts doing anything so mundane as eating ice cream. Then he nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt a tap on his arm.

“Orange sherbet and chocolate sauce, wasn’t it?” said the man behind the counter, handing him a silver dish piled high with what he’d asked for.

“Yes,” said Draco, and in spite of himself, he felt his mouth water. The man was still standing there though, looking expectant. “Ehm, thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied kindly enough, but he didn’t move. “That’ll be two sickles,” he prompted eventually.

“Oh, of course,” Draco said, patting his robes frantically. There wasn’t… he hadn’t… oh for pity’s sake… “Two… umm… two sickles…”

He pulled out the entire contents of his pockets: three stray twigs from his broom, a butterbeer bottlecap, two paperclips, and a piece of lint. Draco Malfoy, heir to one of the largest fortunes in England, had left home without a knut in his pockets. His eyes widened in shock. If anyone ever found out about this and mentioned it to his father…

“Forget your pocket money, dear?” said a woman behind him, and he turned quickly to see the plump mother of the red-headed children standing there in her patched robes.

“I…,” he began, trying to muster an appropriate response.

“Here,” she said, handing the man behind the counter two sickles. “It’s exactly the change from my shopping anyway. Don’t feel bad. It could happen to anyone.”

The woman waved to him pleasantly and herded her large group of children out the door before he could say anything, none of them any the wiser apparently, his expression patently gob-smacked. He didn’t know what to make of what had happened; had he been in her place, he would have been laughing hysterically at the foolish little boy with no money, and she obviously didn’t have two sickles to throw away, not with that brood and those shabby robes. It was confusing, that’s what it was.

“Enjoy,” said the man as he moved on to the next customer, sparing a smile for the woman’s retreating form.

Draco shrugged, deciding that deep thoughts and sherbet didn’t mix well, and dug into his sundae enthusiastically. He was scraping the bottom of the dish in less time than he thought, and at last he pushed away from the counter and began wondering what could have happened to his mother. Unsure what exactly to do, he opened the door to the shop and carefully stepped into the main street.

The bustle of Diagon Alley was a little overwhelming. Draco felt like he was standing in the middle of river that was sweeping along at a rapid pace, and he was attempting to keep his footing in the middle of it. His gaze whipped from one side to the other, searching for a glimpse of his mother’s blonde hair above the crowd of people, and eventually, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the back of her head turning down a side street.

He followed her quickly, darting between the witches and wizards without much effort now that he had his bearings, and he caught up to her just as she opened the door of a large shop labeled “Borgin and Burkes.” A bell above the door jingled in an off-key and surprisingly low note, and for some reason it gave Draco an immediate impression not only that this place was important but also that he did not like it.

“Mother,” he called politely, and she whirled around.

“There you are,” she said. “I’d wondered where you had gotten to. I’ve been having a chat with Mrs. Carrow about this and that and the time quite got away from me.”

Draco nodded, trying to be indifferent to the fact his mother seemed to have forgotten him entirely for nearly half an hour, but he chose to pretend it had not happened. Besides, Borgin and Burkes was fascinating, if not a bit repellent. There were any number of strange and even macabre things lying around, some of them probably quite deadly by the look of the warning signs liberally sprinkled through the store. His mother seemed to notice this as well, and she frowned.

“Draco, I have some business to attend to here for your father. Do you feel capable of purchasing your own robes at Madam Malkin’s? She’s just up the street, across from an ice cream parlor owned by that strange little man. What on earth is his name, Borgin?” she asked the shopkeeper imperiously.

Draco hadn’t noticed him standing in the shadows before, and he couldn’t help wishing he’d stayed hidden. There was something off about him, as though he weren’t meant to move about and talk like a normal person but was more of an automaton charmed into movement. He was disturbing.

“Florian Fortescue, madam,” he said in a voice that oozed rather than spoke. “Pure blood but, alas, not of our kind.”

“Our?” she responded, the single word carrying with it the meaning that she did not like Borgin presuming to put himself in the same class as her.

“Your, I should say, madam,” he corrected quickly. “I meant no disrespect. We are simply of the same mind in important matters, I should say, while Fortescue and his ilk are little better than traitors.”

Narcissa nodded, apparently satisfied with the answer. Draco, for his part, was already growing a little bored. Obviously Fortescue was a pure blood; he hadn’t been whooping or speaking unintelligibly or swinging from chandeliers or attempting robbery or engaging in any of the other bizarre and half-crazed behavior that earmarked Muggle-borns. Frankly, he was rather curious how Hogwarts would manage in their presense. It might prove to be an interesting spot.

“You think that you can find it, Draco?” his mother asked, already opening her handbag and counting out galleons to put in Draco’s hand.

“I believe so,” he said lazily.

“Good. Be sure to get first quality robes, though nothing too flamboyant as it shows the worst of breeding to parade oneself like a peacock,” she instructed as she handed him a small pile of gold. “Do with the remainder of the money what you wish. I shall meet you in front of Gringotts at half past one. Be prompt.”

“Thank you, Mother,” he said, backing out of the store. The more protective side of him didn’t like to leave her in the company of Borgin, but as her posture and expression showed not the least whit of fear, he trusted she would be fine.

“Oh, and Draco,” she said, turning towards him again, “don’t speak to anyone except Madam Malkin.”

“Yes, Mother,” he said, though his fingers were crossed behind his back.

He went back up the street, which a signpost helpfully labeled as Knockturn Alley, at a leisurely pace, taking time to glance from side to side at all the different store fronts and vendors selling odds and ends from pushcarts. He noted a strange similarity to Borgin and Burkes among all these places, a sort of indirect feeling of general malice that set the hairs on the back of his neck on end. This was a place to watch one’s back, he thought firmly, as well as one’s moneybag. He tightly clutched the galleons his mother had given him, and perhaps it was his imagination, but he could have sworn he felt fingers ghosting over his grip, trying to gently pry them away, but relenting when they met resistance. Each time he spun around quickly to see if someone was there, but there never was. He was quite pleased to leave the street and go back to Diagon Alley proper, which felt less menacing. It reminded him pleasantly of breaking the surface of the water after holding his breath too long when swimming.

Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions was a respectable looking shop. The front windows displayed a variety of fashionable robes on bewitched mannequins that struck a series of poses that Draco couldn’t help thinking looked rather overly dramatic. One mannequin, dressed in a flaming pink concoction with so many ruffles it looked as though any girl wearing it would be all but paralyzed by them, seemed particularly melodramatic, showing off so violently it had knocked a more staid lavender robe and a rather dowdy green tartan off their non-existent feet more than once in the few moments he stood there.

Draco took a breath, then opened the door. This time a simple chime rang, and a few seconds later a short, plump witch dressed all in mauve greeted him.

“Good morning,” she said with a smile.

“Good morning,” Draco responded. “I need hogs for Robewarts… I mean,” he said horrified at the blunder.

“They’re all a bit nervous, dearie,” she said, laughing. “I know what you mean.”

“Yes, well, robes. Hogwarts,” Draco said, not liking her laughing at him even if it didn’t sound particularly mocking. “I need them. Good ones.”

“In the back, then,” she said, leading a still flustered Draco towards a footstool as another witch, very tall and rather bony, pulled a black robe over his head. No sooner had his head emerged from the neckhole than the chime sounded once again. “I have another customer to see to. Araminta here will start pinning you up.”

He felt awkward, standing there in a robe that was much too long for him, some witch he’d never seen before sticking pins into it and occasionally pricking his legs with them. Was he supposed to speak to her or ignore her or what? Why wasn’t there an instruction book for such things?

Thankfully, less than a minute later, another boy was standing beside him and being fitted for robes as well. Draco took in his appearance quickly: short stature, dark (and rather messy) hair, glasses, and bright green eyes. He looked to be about Draco’s age, and the style of the robes that yet another witch was pinning for him were identical to his own, so there was a good chance he might be a first year at Hogwarts as well.

Draco schooled his features into an impassive expression at the same time his stomach began doing backflips. This was the first person he had met who would be one of his schoolmates, an equal, someone he would spend the next seven years with. First impressions, he told himself, were everything. He needed to be sauve. He needed to be urbane. He needed… to open his mouth and actually say something.

“Hello. Hogwarts, too?” he finally managed, having already mentally tried and discarded every greeting he could think of from “Pleased to have the pleaure of your acquaintance” to “Horrid weather we’re having.”

“Yes,” said the other boy.

And then… and then nothing else.

Draco tried to fish around in his brain for something to say, anything, something impressive.

“My father’s next door buying my books and mother’s up the street looking at wands,” he lied smoothly. The other boy’s parents would undoubtedly be doing something similar. He didn’t want to admit that his mother had pretty much left him to fend for himself while his father was off doing… whatever it was his father did. With a shudder, Draco suddenly realized he had absolutely no idea what exactly his father did all day. The thought had never occurred to him before, and it was rather like realizing suddenly that he had always worn his shoes on the wrong feet or something similarly daft.

Instinctively, he improved the lie to keep from showing how off track he had gotten. The best thing, he supposed, would be to impress upon the other boy that he was both wealthy and suitably rebellious against authority.

“Then I’m going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don’t see why first years can’t have their own. I think I’ll bully father into buying me one and smuggle it in somehow,” he said smoothly, congratulating himself on the wonderful impression he must be making even while he had come to the odd conclusion he had absolutely no idea where precisely the family’s money came from. On the other hand, he told himself, he should be asking the other boy about his interests as well. That would be the polite thing.

“Have you got your own broom?” he asked, thinking the answer would either be yes, meaning they could now discuss the virtues of different brooms, or no, meaning he had siblings he shared a broom with and that they could discuss those instead. Yes, he thought, things were going extremely well.

“No,” the other boy said.

Oh. Well, that wasn’t helpful.

“Play Quidditch at all?” he asked, vainly seeking for something to discuss with the strangely tactiturn boy. After all, even if he didn’t play Quidditch, he had to have a team he supported. Everyone knew Quidditch, after all.

“No,” he responded.

Draco waited a moment for the boy to say something, anything, even that he didn’t like Quidditch, as hard as that would be to believe, but instead he stubbornly kept silent. Draco was frankly beginning to think this fellow was rather rude.

“I do,” he supplied, filling the void with a discussion of his own brilliant and fascinating accomplishments for the boy’s edification. “Father says it’s a crime if I’m not picked to play for my house, and I must say, I agree. Know what house you’ll be in yet?”

Before he responded, Draco mentally supplied the answer, so he wasn’t at all surprised to hear the word “no” come from the boy’s mouth again.

“Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they,” Draco said in what he hoped was a sympathetic tone, “but I know I’ll be in Slytherin, all our family have been—imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I’d leave, wouldn’t you?”

There, Draco thought with satisfaction. The boy might not have a broom, play Quidditch, or know what house he’d be in, but at the very least he must know, as everyone did, that Slytherin was the best of them all and that being a Hufflepuff was tantamount to being publically labelled a moron. Convesation should flow smoothly now.

“Mmm,” he replied.

One yes, three noes, and a single letter. He wondered if everyone in his year was going to be this much fun.

At that moment, he noticed movement outside the window, and his eyes widened in shock. The biggest man he had ever seen was standing in the street, waving his arms frantically and carrying a pair of dripping ice cream cones. Droplets were spattering onto passersby in his enthusiasm, and he saw one dip actually go flying off the top of a double dip cone and land squarely on the head of a middle-aged man, who turned around to tell off the offender only to back away wordlessly at his size.

“I say, look at that man!” Draco said. At long last, something the other boy had to respond to!

“That’s Hagrid,” the boy told him. “He works at Hogwarts.”

A complete sentence! In fact, two of them! Draco was thrilled at his own success.

“Oh, I’ve heard of him. He’s a sort of servant, isn’t he?” Draco said, deciding that it probably wouldn’t be prudent to say he was a former student who had been expelled and set to work cleaning up after the animals out of pity for being rather dim.

“He’s the gamekeeper,” the boy replied, starting to sound rather insulted.

Draco couldn’t understand exactly what he’d said that was so outrageous. So, Hagrid was a servant. What of it? There were wizards who ruled and wizards who served and Muggles who ran around like semi-coherent squirrels, and as long as everyone kept to their places, what was wrong with that? It was the way of things.

“Yes, exactly,” Draco said, then decided that perhaps the boy was misinformed about the man in question. “I’ve heard he’s some sort of savage—lives in a hut on the school grounds and every now and then he gets drunk, tries to do magic and ends up setting fire to his bed.”

It was all perfectly true. His father had informed him of the lax state of Hogwarts and used the gamekeeper as the perfect example of why Dumbledore was a ridiculously poor headmaster.

“I think he’s brilliant,” the boy shot back.

Draco blinked a moment. The boy couldn’t possibly be saying he preferred a drunken idiot’s companionship to his own, could he?

“Do you?” Draco said, and a bit of venom crept into his voice. “Why is he here with you? Where are your parents?”

“They’re dead,” Harry said bluntly.

Draco was momentarily taken aback by this. After all, he’d been the one to bring up his own very much absent parents in an effort to sound normal, and it turned out to be probably the worst thing he could have said. He took a moment to judge the other boy’s social status, trying to see whether offering an apology would be permitted, but it was simply impossible to tell whether he was dealing with an inferior or not. His father would have his hide for this if he ever found out, but he couldn’t very well ignore the fact he’d made an enormous blunder.

“Oh,” he said. “Sorry.”

There, he thought. A Malfoy, as everyone knew, never apologizes except under the most stringently horrible circumstances, and he had just apologized. It must be perfectly obvious that he was mortified by his earlier question.

The boy said nothing but continued to look insulted. It wasn’t possible… he couldn’t possibly outrank him socially, could he? Was there anyone who outranked a Malfoy? Did the Minister of Magic have a son?

“But they were our kind, weren’t they?” he asked, hoping to convey that by “our” he meant on the same level.

“They were a witch and wizard, if that’s what you mean,” he said.

Obviously they were a witch and wizard, Draco thought. He couldn’t possibly be a Muggle-born. Monosyllabic as he might be, he wasn’t behaving at all like an animal, so he must be a wizard.

“I really don’t think they should let the other sort in, do you? They’re just not the same, they’ve never been brought up to know our ways. Some of them have never even heard of Hogwarts until they get the letter, imagine. I think they should keep it in the old wizarding families,” he said, repeating the polite formalities his parents used regularly as smalltalk. It suddenly occurred to him, though, that they weren’t even properly introduced. “What’s your surname, anyway?”

“That’s you done, my dear,” Madam Malkin suddenly chimed in, and the boy leapt off the stool with what seemed to be relief.

“Well, I’ll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose,” Malfoy said to him.

The other boy said absolutely nothing to him but paid Madam Malkin and left the store without uttering another word.

Draco looked after him, a puzzled expression marring his face. As far as he could tell, he hadn’t said anything wrong, yet the boy had been all but actually hostile to him.

“Odd fellow,” Draco said with a shrug as the witch whipped the robe off over his head.

At one o’clock, he stood by Gringotts, and his mother appeared, thankfully, on time. He wanted to avoid running into the strange boy again, and on top of that, the conversation he’d had made him reluctant to speak to anyone else for fear he’d receive the same reaction, confirming that it was in fact him with the problem rather than the dark-haired (and annoyingly nameless) boy.

“Everything completed?” Narcissa asked, glancing at his parcels.

“Yes, Mother,” he said as he fell into step alongside her and entered the building.

“Did you have an enjoyable day?” she asked him as she reached into her handbag and took out a small vial of Floo powder.

“It was… enlightening,” Draco said as she selected a fireplace and tossed the powder into the flames.

“I shall see you at dinner,” she said as though she had not heard a word he had said.

Draco stepped once more into the emerald flames, saying, “Malfoy Estate,” as he did so. As the familiar nausea set in once more, he couldn’t help wondering if the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach had less to do with the wild journey and more to do with apprehension over what Hogwarts would be like.


	5. The Journey Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco is visited by an uneasy dream and prepares for his departure to Platform 9 3/4.

A month and a day went by between Draco’s trip to Diagon Alley and the day the Hogwarts Express was due to leave the station. One might wonder exactly what Draco did in the interim. The answer was simple: he perfected the art of boredom mixed with creeping paranoia.

Everything at home seemed just a bit annoying to him. If the house-elves brought dinner too quickly, he complained that they were probably throwing things together slap-dash in the kitchen and the food would suffer. If it was too slow, they were lazy loafers. There was no middle ground for Draco. The same was true of the weather: too bright, too gloomy, too warm, too cold, too stiflingly close or too blusteringly windy. Nothing seemed quite right, most likely because he was perpetually swinging back and forth between frenzied anticipation and cold dread about his first year at Hogwarts.

Time seemed to crawl by, and Draco took to getting up late and going to bed early in an effort to make the time go faster, but it didn’t work well. He kept having bizarre, unpleasant dreams. Every fear he managed to pretend didn’t exist by daylight ran rampant through his subconscious by night. He dreamed that he failed the Sorting entirely and was chucked back onto the Hogwarts Express, which took him back to London where his parents refused to admit that he was their son. Another time, he had a nightmare that everyone at the school already knew everything there was to know about magic and he was the slowest, dumbest of the lot. Bad dreams about Mudbloods throwing apple cores at him in the dining hall, that Pansy Parkinson was entirely covered in warts and had breath like a garlic-covered rotten egg, that he couldn’t get his broomstick off the ground, that he would fail every class and be publicly thrown out on the front lawn and carried away in a dustbin by the gigantic caretaker, that he would be a friendless nobody with no talent—at one point he even dreamed that he was the ugliest boy in school, though he awoke from that one scoffing loudly. Regardless, when morning came, he would shove all of it to the back of his mind and try to act as nonchalant as possible.

It was, of course, an act and nothing more. Draco was an arrogant brat, but he was painfully aware that he was entering an entirely new sphere where perhaps he wouldn’t be as worshipped and appreciated as he was at home, that he might even prove to be somewhat less than perfect. He knew what happened to things that were less than perfect in the Malfoy home, and realistically he couldn’t expect himself to fare any better than his mother’s once favorite china that had gone out of fashion or his father’s highly expensive dress robes that were no longer the height of style.

As much as the days dragged along, time did move. Throughout August, Draco saw nothing of his father. It still itched at the back of his mind that he had absolutely no idea where all the money that made up the Malfoy fortune came from, and he even attempted broaching the subject with his mother at dinner one night.

“It is earned,” she told him firmly. “That is all you need to know.”

He didn’t bring up the subject again.

The night of August 31 was almost entirely sleepless for Draco. When he did drift off, he had a particularly disturbing nightmare, one entirely unlike the others that had plagued him for a month.

He was standing in front of a mirror, and it reflected nothing but darkness behind him. His first impression was that he looked extremely handsome, as usual. As he watched, his image began to change very subtly. He grew taller, older, but it was more than that. It was hard to place exactly what was happening, but his eyes seemed to become lusterless, and the color in his face slowly drained away. His posture changed, looking somehow broken, as though the world rested on his shoulders.

“Don’t be a damn fool,” the image said to him. “You’re a Malfoy. You know what you are. Don’t take less than what you want, and don’t let anyone else decide your path. She’ll destroy you if you let her.”

“Who?” he demanded.

“You’ll know,” the other Draco said.

“Oh, come off it!” he yelled, stamping his feet. “If you’re really me, quit talking like one of those babbling, half-witted seers and get to the point already!”

“I’ve said all I can,” the image, which was starting to frighten him with its drained pallor and hollow eyes, said as it turned to go.

“You haven’t said anything! Who is ‘she?’” Draco demanded of the retreating form which was rapidly being swallowed up by mist.

“Master…” said a tentative voice as he was gently shaken.

“Don’t you dare be ambiguous!” yelled Draco, sitting up sharply. “I’ll… oh. It’s morning.”

“Yes,” said Dobby as he backed away from the bed. “Did young master have a bad dream?”

“No,” Draco lied. “I’m perfectly fine.”

“That is good, for your mother wishes you to meet her downstairs for breakfast in five minutes,” Dobby said, backing towards the doorway.

“Five minutes!” Draco shrieked. “I can’t be ready in five minutes!”

“Sir, I was trying to wake you, but you was sleeping so sound that I could not do it,” Dobby said, still inching his way towards the door.

With a loud yelp, Draco grabbed his bedroom slippers from beside the bed and hurled them at Dobby’s head (which the elf nimbly ducked, having become quite used to this reaction), then sprinted to his closet and dressed at top speed. He ran a comb through his hair, shoved his feet into his shoes, which were thankfully already polished, and scrambled out the door, down the stairs, and into the dining room without even a pretense at moving silently and elegantly. It’s even possible that he tripped over his own feet as he entered the dining room, nearly winding up sprawling across the floor, but as his mother did not appear to notice, perhaps it never happened at all.

“Good morning,” Narcissa said formally, dabbing a napkin to her lips and gesturing for a house-elf to remove her breakfast tray.

“Good morning, Mother,” he replied with the customary bow before sitting opposite her at the long table and beginning on a hard boiled egg, though frankly he lacked any appetite.

“Did you sleep well?” she asked, and her tone seemed almost nervous, if that were possible in a Malfoy.

“Reasonably well,” Draco said evasively, nearly drowning his egg in salt as he forgot what he was doing. He preferred not to think about the haggard version of himself in the dream-mirror or its annoyingly cryptic warning.

Narcissa nodded absently as she took a delicate sip of tea. Draco, for his part, took a bit of his over-salted egg and gagged wildly, causing his mother’s eyebrows to fly nearly to her hairline and a pair of house-elves to appear and whomp the young master repeatedly on the back. After downing half a glass of water, Draco tried very hard to continue on as though everything were perfectly normal.

“Yes, well,” Narcissa said, regaining composure. “I suppose you may have been wondering why you have not yet purchased a wand.”

“It crossed my mind,” Draco said. It was a complete understatement. The thought of why he was still wandless shot through his head several dozen times a day.

“The reason is simple: you already have a wand,” Narcissa said, returning her cup to its saucer without the slightest clatter. Damn, Draco thought. I’ve really got to learn how to do that… then her words hit him.

“I do?” Draco asked.

“You were willed one just prior to your birth,” Narcissa explained. “My father, your grandfather, Cygnus Black, was on his deathbed while I was expecting you. He insisted in his will that, rather than having his wand buried with him, it should be passed on to his grandson. Of course, this was under condition that you were a boy. If the heir had been a female, the wand would have passed to the first son of your Aunt Bellatrix, though she remains childless.”

Draco’s mind was reeling. It was usually considered a great moment in a young wizard’s life when his wand chose him, or vice versa as there seemed little difference. At least that’s what the books he’d read said. Now, he was finding out that he’d have to make do with a hand-me-down wand from a grandfather who’d had the temerity to die before ever meeting him, and who even appeared to have harbored suspicions that Draco might turn out to be girl.

“You look displeased, Draco,” his mother said, her tone unreadable.

“I’m just finding it rather disturbing that most of the major decisions about my life occurred before I turned one year old,” Draco said bitterly. “I’ve got a wand and a wife I didn’t know anything about. Are there any other surprises I should know about?”

Narcissa Malfoy straightened her already perfect posture until she seemed almost supernaturally rigid, and Draco knew at once he’d overstepped considerably.

“You will be proud to carry the wand of your pure-blood ancestor,” she said firmly, and it had the flavor of a command from a queen.

“Yes, Mother,” he said, wondering what he would do if the wand refused to work for him.

She paused significantly, then relaxed her shoulders so slightly that it was almost imperceptible. She beckoned to a house-elf who scurried forward carrying an elongated box of black satin with a green velvet band across it. The elf presented this to Draco, who took the box warily. Cautiously, he slipped the velvet from the box and opened the hinged lid to find a wand inside lying on a bed of emerald silk. If looked fairly imposing.

“Hawthorn,” his mother said, and he was so startled by her voice that he nearly dropped the box. “The interior is unicorn hair.”

He continued to stare at the wand as though it might explode at any moment.

“Pick it up!” she said, exasperation coloring her words.

Draco took a deep breath, then gripped the wand carefully in his right hand. At once, he felt something, a sort of charge that zinged from the tips of his fingers and up his arm, connecting to his heart or mind or something that didn’t even have a name. Experimentally, he waved the wand through the air, and from its end erupted a flurry of snowflakes that landed gracefully on the table. He smiled, then looked up to find his mother returning the expression.

“I do believe my father’s wand will suit you just fine, son,” she said, taking another sip of tea. “You’d best see that you’re entirely packed. We shall leave in a few minutes.”

Draco nodded, not quite trusting himself to talk. He’d done magic before, of course, the accidental sort that all wizarding children did without really meaning to: floating his bear to him in his crib as a baby, dropping a saucepan on a house-elf’s head from fifty paces during a tantrum, closing the door when his father was about to go to work for the day and trying to make him stay home. But this… this was the first time he’d done magic on purpose, and the feeling had been exhilarating. Still clutching the wand, he ran from the dining room and up the stairs, once again forgetting about predatory silence and instead laughing exuberantly, the unaccustomed sound echoing off the walls of the Malfoy Manor and making it sound far more cheerful than it had in decades.

Once back in his bedroom, Draco checked his trunk for what might have been the thousandth time. His books, robes, and sundry personal effects were all in order, along with his cauldron. He looked with longing at his Comet 260, resting on the bench at the end of his bed. First years weren’t permitted brooms, so it would be a while before he’d be soaring on his old friend again. The thought presented a sharp pain he was unaccustomed to, and he found himself stroking the handle fondly before shaking himself and rolling his eyes at his sentimentality.

He looked around the room. For the previous eleven years, this house and its grounds had been his world. It was the only thing he knew.

If it were possible for a Malfoy to be terrified, Draco would have been. In fact, he may briefly have had a thought skitter through his mind that it would be wonderful to be six years old again and hide in his closet, playing with his Quidditch action figures, which he most certainly did not still have in a box under his bed along with a certain bear that had once had a penchant for floating.

But, Draco was indeed a Malfoy. As he took one steadying breath, he closed his eyes, opened them again, and grinned.

“Hogwarts, be ready. You’re mine,” he said arrogantly to the empty room, then shut the door, knowing the house-elves would carry his baggage down in perfect condition.


	6. The World Tips on Its Axis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Platform 9 3/4 the Hogwarts Express, and many meetings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue is taken from _Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone_ , Chapter 6. For disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

Draco hadn’t really given much thought to how he and his mother would arrive at the Muggle King’s Cross station. Floo powder wasn’t an option, and neither was apparition, broomstick, or any other way Draco normally traveled, so he had no idea how they would be getting from point A to point B, except that for once he was probably going to have to go in a straight line, which was rarely the shortest distance between two points.

Draco’s question was answered as he met his mother at the front door of the Malfoy manor. Humming quietly outside in the garage drive was a sleek, long, gray, metallic… thing.

“What’s that?” he asked, pointing.

“Muggle transportation,” Narcissa replied with a put-upon sigh. “It’s an automobile. For today, it will have to suffice.”

Calling the car in front of them an automobile was rather like calling Kilimanjaro a molehill. It was, in fact, a Rolls Royce Phantom III, circa 1936. The chrome glistened bright silver in the morning light, and the motor purred like a kitten. Draco Malfoy might be pure-blood to the nth degree, but he was still a boy, and as a general rule, boys like shiny cars. Draco was no exception.

“Whoa,” he said, reaching out a hand to pat the side of it admiringly. “What’s it run on? Is there a tiny horse under there or something?”

“Petrol, I think,” his mother said, regarding him carefully.

“She’s a beauty,” he said, leaning close and catching his reflection in the highly polished paint.

He was startled nearly out of his skin when his mother blasted a football-sized dent into the side of the door with her wand.

“It’s a Muggle contraption, not worthy of your interest,” she said bitterly. “Don’t regard it with such reverence. We are using it only to keep the International Statue of Wizarding Secrecy intact, bothersome as it is. This monstrosity is beneath you. Do you understand?”

Draco was still stunned, but he nodded.

“Better,” his mother said, quickly repairing the dent so that the Malfoy name would not be smudged by having them appear in public in something less than perfect.

Draco, still rather shaken, opened the car door for his mother, who entered as regally as any queen. Draco ran around to the other door, opened it quickly, and seated himself next to his mother. He noted that somehow the house-elves had already managed to put his baggage in the car.

“Drive,” his mother said imperiously to the wizard behind the wheel, and he obediently set off down the garage drive and through the front gate of the Malfoy home.

Draco turned around to see the gates clang shut behind them, cutting off his last glimpse of home for many months, the lonesome cry of one albino peacock echoing behind them. He faced the front again, reminding himself that Malfoys do not feel homesick, especially when they aren’t even down the road yet. But the road did fascinate him. He had rarely been here before since he tended to travel via Floo powder, skipping the streets and lanes of the English countryside and having only a pair of fireplaces and a dizzying flurry of lights and color as his sightseeing. Though he tried to school his face to look as incredibly bored as his mother’s, his eyes flicked from building to building with an interest he couldn’t quite hide. Several small homes dotted their path, each of which could have fit in the dining room of the Malfoy house. A few buildings that appeared to be shops clustered together towards the center of town, their windows filled with bizarre things like perfectly stationary mannequins or displays of batteries, CDs, or Muggle toys. On a corner was the pointy-roofed thing he could sometimes see from his bedroom window when the trees lost their leaves in winter and the view was less obscured. It looked rather like an upside down ice cream cone. This set him thinking about Fortescue’s ice cream, and from there to the odd boy he had met. His face fell. He hoped that whoever his housemates ended up being, they’d be slightly more loquacious.

“Now, Draco,” his mother said, and with a wave of her wand the windows were tinted nearly black, effectively blocking his view of the outside world, “I have several things to discuss with you.”

Disappointed at the lack of a view, he turned to his mother.

“First, remember that you are a Malfoy, and with that great honor comes a responsibility to behave in such a fashion that you will bring honor on your home. For that reason, remember to move only in pure-blood circles. You don’t want to make connections with the wrong kind of people, a great danger at Hogwarts with its extremely. . . ,” she paused, as though searching for a bad enough word, “permissive enrollment standards. Once you are sorted into Slytherin, it is best if you associate only with your housemates. They should all be fine, upstanding pure-bloods, but realize that even in that grouping you should hold yourself above the rest as there are few families who can claim anything like your heritage.”

“Who are the other few?” Draco asked curiously.

“As your father told you, Goyle and Crabbe are both old and illustrious families, and they have been designated as your particular companions,” she said, watching him wince at the sore point of having his friends picked for him. “You may, of course, make other connections as well, and they could prove highly useful in the years ahead. For example, though there is some scandal in the family, the Zabinis are at about our level. Also, the Greengrass family is quite respectable, as well as the Flints. Trust your judgment, but be circumspect about your friendships. Don’t forget about your godfather. Professor Snape will be teaching you Potions this year, and he should be more than willing to help you in any necessary way.”

“I’d nearly forgotten he was at Hogwarts,” Draco said, not quite sure how to react.

His godfather was an unusual person, to say the least, and rather intimidating. He stopped by the Malfoy home every Christmas, usually with a remarkably complex potion that his father would admire greatly, something like Felix Felicis or the like. He was undoubtedly brilliant, but rather sour. He never seemed to smile. Draco had wondered many times if he was plagued with a perpetual stomach ache. But his mind drifted back to the topic of potential friends.

“Won’t any pure-blood family be okay?” he asked.

“No!” she said quite loudly. “There are some who are blood traitors, or wastrels, or simply not worth speaking with. The Weasleys, for example, are a very old family but little better than Mudbloods. They’re quite easy to recognize: they have flaming red hair, are invariably poor, and have so many children that they reproduce faster than rabbits. They have a habit of befriending Muggles, and that’s enough reason to shun them. Most likely you’ll have at least one in your year; the odds are in favor of it at any rate. Avoid them at all costs. They will ruin your reputation and that of anyone else around them.”

Draco nodded seriously. This was a great deal to remember. Still, he couldn’t understand why his mother seemed so concerned. He had no intention of interacting with anyone as stupid and boring as a Mudblood, and if this Weasley family liked hanging about with them, they couldn’t be all that interesting, either.

“I won’t let you down,” he promised, and she smiled at him warmly, taking a moment to tousle his hair affectionately before laying it smooth again.

“I know you won’t, son,” she said.

To Draco’s disappointment, the car’s windows remained dark all the way to London, making it impossible to see any more of the journey. He tried to busy himself with paging through one of his new textbooks, but he couldn’t keep his mind on anything for long. After an interminable time, they pulled up in front of King’s Cross, and when the driver opened the door, Draco followed his mother into the swirl of activity surrounding the train station. His mother walked with precise, certain steps towards their destination, bypassing a number of wrong turns and arriving quickly at Platform 9 ¾.

“Through the wall,” his mother said, motioning him towards the solid brick.

Draco looked perplexed but followed his mother’s directions. In a moment, he was in the middle of a very different hubbub of activity. Hundreds of children carrying books, cauldrons, and trunks were scattered as far along the platform as he could see. Cats meowed, owls shrieked, baggage clacketed along on trolleys, and laughter and conversation of friends seeing each other again after the holidays surrounded him. A great scarlet engine puffed heavily at one end of the station, and the cars went on and on, so many of them. So very many. Something about its scale made him feel horribly small and unimportant, and coupled with the happy conversations of people who all seemed to know one another, he was feeling unsure of himself. A moment later his mother’s hand was resting lightly on his shoulder.

“Try not to worry too much,” she said, and her voice was uncharacteristically soft.

He made an attempt at schooling his features into an expression of disdainful ennui with the proceedings, the very picture of his father’s usual appearance, but the effect must have been slightly less perfect as his mother smiled at him in the same way she once did when he was very small and he had brought her home a bouquet of weeds instead of actual flowers.

“I have a present for you,” she said, and his ears perked up.

“Really?” he asked, excited in spite of himself. “What is it?”

“You’ll have to see for yourself,” she said. “I arranged for it to be delivered to the third railcar, the compartment closest to the engine. Your baggage will be seen to, so perhaps we should simply say goodbye here.”

He looked up at her and saw that her gray eyes were suspiciously bright. He knew he was expected to behave with gravity and dignity, especially with so many peers hanging about, but a quick glance around saw any number of students embracing family members or slightly choked up over leaving them for so long; however, he knew that wouldn’t be permitted of him.

“Goodbye, Mother,” he said gravely, then, restraining himself from a parting hug, he bowed, and left for the third car.

He did not look back. He had already heard the soft pop of her Apparition. Draco Malfoy was on his own.

As he entered the first compartment of the third railcar, he immediately saw a large item wrapped in a black cloth with a dark green bow atop it. His first reaction was disappointment that it was not in any way broom-shaped, but curiosity got the better of him quickly. In a moment, the cloth was pulled away, and a pair of yellow eyes were blinking back at him, their owner obviously finding the abrupt introduction rather rude.

“An owl…,” Draco breathed, pleased.

The owl flapped its wings experimentally from inside the brass cage, then turned her head sideways to stare at her new owner. After a few moments, it gave a series of soft hoots that seemed approving. Draco noticed a small envelope attached to the bars of the cage. He quickly opened it and found a note on his mother’s stationary.

“Her name is Persephone. Write soon.”

“Persephone, is it?” he said, picking up the cage and peering into it quizzically but smiling broadly. “I’ll have to remember not to give you pomegranate seeds.”

“Oh, that’s a lovely owl!” said a voice behind him rapturously.

Draco nearly dropped the cage he was so startled.

“Sorry,” the girl in the doorway said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I just love owls.”

“You didn’t frighten me,” Draco said huffily.

“Oh, good,” she said, and the look she gave him suggested she didn’t believe a word of what he’d said. “Are these seats taken?”

“No,” Draco said, eyeing her critically.

He watched as she dragged a trunk into the room. She didn’t appear to be any older than he was, but she was a couple inches shorter. Her brown hair stuck out wildly in all directions, and her teeth were a bit too large for her mouth. She was no beauty, that was certain, but she seemed friendly enough. At any rate, she was a good deal more chatty than the fellow in Malkin’s had been.

“Could you give me a hand with this?” she asked, gesturing to the trunk. “I can’t quite reach the rack.”

“Of course,” he said, internally berating himself for forgetting his manners. A pure-blood gentleman always helped a pure-blood lady with her parcels. He hefted it up to the luggage rack easily enough, though it had been rather heavy.

“What do you have in that thing? Rocks?” he asked, trying to sound friendly. He was pleased when she laughed.

“No, just books,” she said, sitting across from him. “There’s so much to learn, and I don’t want to fall behind. I’m Hermione, by the way, Hermione Granger.”

There was a part of him, a very small part, that was slightly disappointed she hadn’t said her name was Pansy. She put out her hand, and for a moment he was unsure whether it was more polite to shake it as he would a man’s or kiss it as his father did at introductions to women. Taking a wild stab, he took her fingertips and pressed them briefly to his lips.

“Draco Malfoy, at your service,” he said, bowing slightly while still seated.

She gave him an odd look, and he immediately guessed that it wasn’t exactly normal for people to greet each other quite so formally on the Hogwarts Express, but she continued the conversation.

“I’d love an owl myself, but Mother’s allergic to birds,” she said, turning her attention to the owl’s cage once more. “Did you just get her?”

“About two minutes before you walked in the door,” he said.

“She’s an eagle-owl,” she said with certainty, speaking with remarkable speed. “Probably from central Asia. I’ve read up on all the different kinds of owls. Does she have a name?”

“Persephone,” he said.

“Like the Greek goddess? I always loved that story when I was a little girl, but I couldn’t pronounce her name properly. I kept calling her purse-phone,” she said, laughing again. He found he quite liked the sound. “It’s an unusual name, but then I guess so is Hermione. There are lots of unusual names in the wizarding world. Yours is quite unique as well.”

“Draco?” he said, slightly offended. “I’ve never thought it’s odd.”

“Oh, not in a bad way!” Hermione said quickly. “I mean, really, if anyone doesn’t have room to joke about names, it would be me, wouldn’t it? I’ve just never heard it before.”

“It’s from the constellation. You know, the dragon?” he said, feeling a little better but still vaguely paranoid that all of Hogwarts was going to find his name was weird. “The Black side, that’s my mother’s, tends to name their kids after stars and such.”

“What a fascinating tradition,” Hermione said, interest evident on her face.

“And Hermione?” he asked, surprised the conversation was flowing so smoothly.

“It’s from one of Shakespeare’s plays,” she said. “A bit over the top, really. I sometimes wish my parents had gone with Miranda or Portia or something a bit easier to spell or at least pronounce. Still, I suppose they could have picked Imogen or Calpurnia or even Peaseblossom, so I should be happy with what I have.”

“Who’s Shakespeare?” he asked.

She blinked at him, then a look of understanding came over her face and she smiled.

“He was a Muggle writer,” she explained.

“Oh,” he said, a little surprised a pure-blood family would name their daughter after a Muggle writer’s creation. “Well… I suppose he must have been unusually good, then.”

“He was,” she agreed. “He wrote a few plays about magic, but he got the details all wrong, of course.”

“Well, of course he would,” he said dismissively. “Muggles always do. Still, ‘Hermione’ is a mouthful, though.”

“It’s rather interesting every year when the Christmas cards come to see which of my relatives still have no idea how to spell it,” she said with a sigh, “and of course there’s no decent nickname to go with it.”

“I suppose not,” he said, puckering his mouth and considering. “Hermy? Mione? Onny?”

“Sounds like a list of medical symptoms, doesn’t it?” she said with a wry smile.

“Any brothers or sisters?” he asked.

Hermione paused for a moment before answering, “No.”

“Too bad,” he said with an over-exaggerated sigh. “I’d be curious to see what else your parents came up with for names.”

“Rather cheeky for someone whose siblings are probably named Ursa Major and Vega,” she said with a raised eyebrow that was nearly hidden under her bushy mane.

“I don’t have any brothers or sisters, either,” he said, then frowned. “On second thought, I think I might actually have a second cousin once removed who’s named Vega.”

She giggled in response, and after a moment, he found he was joining in with her.

“Do you have a middle name at all?” he asked when the laughter had finished quite naturally.

“Jean,” she said. “Rather one extreme to the other, isn’t it? Almost too normal.”

“I don’t know. It’s like Jeanne D’Arc, isn’t it,” he said, pronouncing the French extremely well after five years of tutoring in what his parents considered a highly important aristocratic language. “Not planning on becoming a warrior, are you?”

She rolled her eyes at the question, then looked out the window at the crowd still running around like ants on the train platform.

“I do wish we’d start already,” she said. “I read it takes all day to get to Hogwarts, and we won’t see it until after nightfall. I wonder what it will be like.”

“I haven’t been able to think of much else since the letter arrived last birthday,” he agreed.

“When was that?” she asked.

“June,” he said with a shrug.

“Three months? That’s nothing. Mine came almost a year ago,” she said an impatient huff.

“Good lord, that’s almost cruel,” he said, goggling. “I’d have gone mad. You’re a September, then?”

“The nineteenth,” she said. “I missed going last year by less than three weeks. Still, it’s given me plenty of time to research things, catch up, that sort of thing.”

He couldn’t figure out what she’d need to catch up on since school had yet to even start, then immediately he began to wonder if perhaps there had been a booklist that went out of prereading or suggested texts or something that he hadn’t got, and if he was the only one who hadn’t got it, and if that meant he’d be stuck in a remedial magic class learning how to do the most basic spells while the rest of his class was off fighting trolls and turning iron into gold.

“Don’t look so worried,” she said kindly.

“I’m not worried,” he lied at once, “just thinking. I wonder when the Sorting takes place.”

“Right before the feast,” Hermione said knowledgably. “If you had a choice, which house would you pick?”

“Slytherin, of course,” Draco said automatically.

“Oh,” she said, slightly taken aback, though he couldn’t figure out why. “I think I’ll probably wind up a Ravenclaw. Bookish, you see.”

It was Draco’s turn to look surprised now. He hadn’t pegged her as being an underachiever.

“Oh, come off it,” he said, watching as the last students boarded the train. “Stop being modest. I’m sure you’ll get into Slytherin with no problem.”

“I...,” she started to say, then stopped herself. “Well, it’s all up to the hat in the end, isn’t it.”

“I guess so,” Draco said. “Our fates are in the hands of a talking hat, of all things. You ever wonder what the founders were drinking when they came up with some of this?”

She smiled a little. Just then, the compartment door opened with a bang, and two large shapes stood alarmingly silhouetted in the frame. Draco nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Malfoy?” grunted one of the pair.

“Yes,” he answered, and while he had meant for the word to come out commanding and proud, there might just have been a slight squeak at the end of it.

The figures stepped inside the compartment, and closer inspection didn’t warrant any greater degree of confidence. They looked like a pair of gargoyles. Draco instinctively stood and reached for his wand even though he didn’t know a single spell to protect either himself or the girl… well, perhaps he could shoot snowflakes at them. To his surprise, he saw Hermione was on her feet as well, wand already out. Jeanne d’Arc, indeed, then.

“Who are you?” she asked, and yes, there was a little quaver in her voice as well, he was glad to hear.

“I’m Crabbe,” said the figure on the right as it threw a trunk into the overhead rack where it seemed to strangely dwarf Hermione’s.

“I’m Goyle,” said the second, exactly mirroring the first one’s movements. “Your father tell you about us?”

“Yes, he did,” Draco said, his mouth drawing up at the corner unpleasantly. For a few brief moments he’d been in control of his own destiny, and now, here was his family directing his path once again.

“Good,” Crabbe said, sitting down next to Hermione with a rather loud thud. Draco swore he thought the whole car bounced a little. He noticed Hermione was nearly pressed against the window.

“Yeah,” Goyle agreed, taking his place next to Draco, who at once moved over on instinct. A quick look shot between him and Hermione, who gave a nearly imperceptible shrug.

“So…,” said Draco uncomfortably.

“Uh-huh,” Crabbe grunted.

“Yeah,” Goyle commented.

“Right,” Hermione put in.

Joy, he thought. He was right back to where he’d been with the chatty boy in the robe shop: monosyllabic grunts.

Thankfully, the train whistle blew loudly at that exact moment, the sound nearly deafening, and with a lurch, the cars began to move forward. The rhythm of the puffing steam began to pound more quickly, and as a brass bell rang in bright, almost merry tones, they were off. In less time than he could have imagined, they had left the buildings of London far behind, and the green countryside was rolling past like an endless chessboard of hedge-bordered fields. Every turn of the wheels and blast of smoke from the engine was bringing him that much closer to Hogwarts, with everything that meant. It was thrilling.

“I’m hungry,” Crabbe said abruptly, shattering the silence.

“Yeah,” Goyle agreed.

Well, Draco thought sarcastically, they eat. As last, something we have in common. We can easily build a lifelong friendship around that one similarity.

“I think there’s supposed to be a witch with a food trolley,” Hermione said, and Crabbe’s head swiveled towards her as though he’d just noticed her presence.

“Who’re you?” he asked.

“Hermione Granger,” she said pleasantly, though Draco noticed that she didn’t put out her hand this time, not that he blamed her. Crabbe’s fingernails were disgustingly dirty. Draco wouldn’t shake his hand for fifty galleons; there might be plague living on that thing.

“Vincent Crabbe,” he said, then pointed at the other boy. “Gregory Goyle.”

“Pleasure,” she said, eyeing them a little distastefully, and he noticed her nose sniffed a bit. For pity’s sake, he thought, how could he have possibly missed the odor before. The pair of them smelled like rancid bacon. “First years as well?”

“Yeah,” Crabbe said. “We’re friends of Malfoy.”

“You’re a girl,” Goyle added intelligently.

“Yes,” Hermione agreed, rather as though she didn’t know how to answer that. “Yes, I am.”

So Goyle could tell girls from boys. Well done. He would have thought it would take at least four more years for him to figure that one out.

“Girls are dumb,” Goyle added, grinning stupidly.

“Not this one,” she said, glaring daggers at him.

“Whatever. I don’t care,” Crabbe said, shrugging lethargically and staring out into the passageway, but then his whole face brightened like a newly lit fire. “Here’s the trolley!”

To Draco’s shock, rather than the appropriate step of allowing the lady in the compartment first choice, the other two boys were immediately on their feet, pushing and shoving at one another in the doorway until it seemed they’d gotten entirely jammed and were unable to move. Draco gaped in horror.

“Singulus,” he heard Hermione say from behind him, and as he glanced over his shoulder, he saw a glitter of light erupt from the end of her wand and gently pry the two boys apart. Crabbe immediately ran out the door and almost knocked the trolley over, Goyle right behind him.

“Nice one,” Draco said. “Ever done that before?”

“No,” she admitted. “I’ve studied the theory, though.”

He was just about to congratulate her when a thought crossed his mind.

“What would have happened had it gone wrong?” he asked.

“Wrong?” she said. “But it went fine.”

“Yes, but you’d never done it before. How did you know it wouldn’t split them in two or something,” he said, frowning at her.

“Oh,” she said, obviously taken aback and her features horror-stricken. “I-I hadn’t thought of that. You’re right; that was stupid of me. I should apologize to them.”

Draco was about to tell her off further (after all, these were his friends, even if he’d never seen them before and didn’t like them that much… or really, at all), but her panicked expression somehow seemed enough. “Eh, don’t bother. I don’t think they even noticed. Besides, if we don’t get to the cart quickly, I think the only things left will be a set of rubber tires and maybe the witch… if she’s lucky.”

A few minutes later, they returned to their seats, Draco chewing a beef pasty since he loathed pumpkin, Hermione enjoying a large mug of chocolate and a pumpkin pasty, and Crabbe and Goyle betting over Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans.

“That’ll be liver, that will,” said Crabbe, pointing at a reddish-brown candy. “Go on. I bet a sickle on it!”

“Right,” Goyle said, popping it in his mouth, and then grimacing. “Not liver. Worcestershire sauce.”

Crabbe flipped a coin to him, and Draco saw Hermione looking at the two of them oddly, though she didn’t say anything. Personally, Draco was thrilled to find the other two were capable of speaking coherently.

“The white one is plain sugar,” Hermione said abruptly, and the others looked at her critically.

“You’re on,” Goyle said, then swallowed it. “It was boiled milk. Pay up.”

“Excuse me,” she said, “but it really was sugar.”

Draco regarded her coolly. This promised to be interesting.

“No,” Goyle said angrily, “it was boiled milk.”

“It wasn’t,” she said firmly. “In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a key on the back of the box that says what each one is. The white one is sugar. You’ve lied about each one you’ve eaten.”

Goyle looked livid, then Draco said, “So why didn’t you say something before?”

“Because Crabbe was looking at the back of the box during his turn as well and betting from that,” Hermione said with a shrug. “They were both cheating.”

Draco gave the two idiots a look of pure disbelief, then let out a howl of laughter. The boys didn’t seem to see what was so funny, but Hermione’s disapproving look slowly turned amused despite how much she tried to hide it.

“Huh?” Crabbe said.

“Dunno,” Goyle responded, looking confused.

Just then, there was a quiet tap on the compartment door, and a boy with a round face looked in.

“Excuse me,” he said sadly, “but has any of you seen a toad? I’ve lost him.”

“Oh!” Hermione said, looking concerned. “No, I haven’t. I’ll keep an eye out, though.”

“So’ll I,” Goyle said, laughing, “so’s I can squish him. Toads are dumb!”

“Like girls?” Hermione said, her voice dripping venom.

“Nah, girls and toads are dumb different ways,” Crabbe said sagely. “Sides, only ugly girls are spotty, and all toads are.”

“Really?” Hermione asked icily.

“Maybe someone threw it under the train,” Crabbe told the other boy. “Why not look for him there, runt!”

The unknown boy, who looked practically ready to cry, shut the door and moved to the next compartment. Hermione, though, was on her feet.

“I think I’ll help him look,” she said, throwing a withering glance over her shoulder at the two larger boys which was entirely wasted on them. “Draco, it was nice meeting you. I hope I’ll see you at the Sorting.”

“See you in Slytherin,” he said with a casual wave as she went out the door. Personally he would have liked to join her. Toads really were pathetic pets, but he couldn’t doubt they’d be far more interesting company than what he was left with. Still, his father had insisted he get to know these two.

“So…,” Draco said uncomfortably.

“Uh-huh,” Crabbe grunted.

“Yeah,” Goyle commented.

God, this was going to be a long train ride. He was thrilled that in a few minutes, during which he found out the fascinating information that Goyle had once actually eaten a toad and Crabbe was vaguely itchy, the other two lapsed into a bored silence. Finally, he simply couldn’t abide it another moment.

“I think I’ll have a walk,” he said, stretching exaggeratedly as he stood.

“Okay,” Crabbe said as both he and Goyle got to their feet.

Draco’s intention had been to take a walk alone, but there really wasn’t any way around their coming without being bluntly rude, and that was for Mudbloods, not friends hand-picked by his parents. With a frustrated sigh, he stepped into the passageway.

The lanterns bobbed slightly in their brackets as the train bumped its way down the tracks, casting interesting and exaggerated shadows on the dark red carpeting. Draco peered lazily into compartment after compartment, seeing a variety of different students, but not a face he knew. Of course he didn’t expect to know anyone, but still, the unfamiliarity of everyone around him was putting him ill at ease. Crabbe and Goyle followed along close behind like a pair of bodyguards, and it crossed his mind that his father may have picked them specifically for that function. A spark of rage ignited in him at the idea that his parents thought he couldn’t bloody well take care of himself, but before he could decide whether or not it was the real reason for these so-called “friends,” he caught sight of Hermione popping in the door at the other end of the car, looking quite interested about something, though Neville seemed as forlorn as ever.

“You’ll never believe it,” she said, running up to him. “Do you know who’s in the next car down, sitting across from some red-haired boy with a smudge on his nose?”

“Who?” he asked.

“Harry Potter, that’s who!” she said.

Draco blinked. So, the rumors were true. He remembered at once what his father had said about the boy being powerful and highly influential, as well as the importance of not turning him into an enemy. Well, at least he had something interesting to do now.

“What’s he like?” Draco asked curiously.

Hermione shrugged. “You know, honestly, he didn’t really say much, just his name and ‘am I?,’ I think.”

Draco paused. It wasn’t possible. Really, it couldn’t be. There had to be any number of boys on the train who were as uncommunicative as slugs.

“Huh,” said Crabbe.

“Hmm,” put it Goyle.

See, Draco told himself. There’s two right there.

“What say we have a look, eh boys?” Draco said to them as Hermione and Neville headed to the other end of the car, still looking for his toad.

Sure enough, just as Hermione had said, the next car did indeed contain a red-headed boy (complete with dirty smudge on nose, quite disgusting), and another boy whose face was just out of view. As Draco opened the compartment door, the other boy turned to face him, and with a clunk Draco felt his stomach drop. It was indeed Mr. Chatty.

“Is it true?” he asked, hoping it wasn’t. “They’re saying all down the train that Harry Potter’s in this compartment.”

The boy looked up at Malfoy, and he noticed the tell-tale scar peeking from beneath his fringe. Well, that settled it.

“So it’s you, is it?” he said, hoping that it didn’t sound quite as openly disappointed as it did in his head.

“Yes,” the boy responded.

Wonderful. It’s like we’ve never parted, Draco thought as Harry Potter stared at Crabbe and Goyle wordlessly. Draco waited a decent amount of time for the two behemoths to introduce themselves, but as they seemed to be transfixed by the pile of sweets on the seat, he gave it up and did it himself.

“Oh, this is Crabbe and this is Goyle,” he said, introducing them. “And my name’s Malfoy.”

He expected something—awe, shock, recognition, a damn nod would be enough—instead, the historical and venerable name of Malfoy had no more impact on this kid than Jones or Johnson. He’d either been living under a rock since birth or this was a deliberate slight.

“Draco Malfoy,” he tried again, hitting his first name hard.

The red-head with bad facial hygiene snorted, and Draco turned as red as the kid’s hair. Maybe Draco really was an odd name. Maybe every single student at Hogwarts was going to break into guffaws of laughter as soon as they read out his name during the Sorting. Humiliation quickly turned to indignation. When confronted with an insult, he could sling one back quite a bit harder when he chose.

“Think my name’s funny do you?” he said, taking in the boy’s appearance quickly and remembering something. “No need to ask who you are. My mother told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford.”

Oh, now that did it. The brat’s freckles were completely camouflaged in his blush. Draco put his attention back to Potter, choosing to explain the basics to him. That, if nothing else, should put him on Harry’s good side.

“You’ll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don’t want to go around making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there,” he offered, holding out a hand for the other boy to shake, thinking this should put things right back on track.

Potter stared at it, his hands remaining on his lap.

“I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks,” he said.

At long last, the Boy Who Lived became the Boy Who Spoke, but of all the things, to leave a Malfoy’s hand hanging in the air, to choose a blood traitor like Weasley over a freely offered friendship with the finest wizarding family in England? Draco’s face burned.

“I’d be careful if I were you, Potter,” he said, making one last stab at pointing out the dreadful mistake the kid was making. “Unless you’re a bit politer you’ll go the same way as your parents. They didn’t know what was good for them, either. You hang around with riffraff like the Weasleys and Hagrid, and it’ll rub off on you.”

And suddenly the two were on their feet. Alright, he thought, the crack about his parents might have been going a bit too far, in retrospect.

“Say that again,” the Weasley said, Draco registering shock he had dared to address him directly.

“Oh, you’re going to fight us, are you?” Malfoy said, suddenly quite happy to have Crabbe and Goyle looming behind him like a pair of trolls.

“Unless you get out now,” Harry said, and Malfoy had to begrudgingly admit that he had some courage not to flinch at the wall of humanity behind him. Still… he had to push him just a little harder. It was a matter of honor.

“But we don’t feel like leaving, do we boys? We’ve eaten all our food and you seem to still have some,” he said, hoping to direct Crabbe and Goyle’s attention back to the situation at hand by mentioning food. He was relatively sure their minds could have wandered by now, say, to things like food, or perhaps food. Maybe even food.

It worked. Goyle stuck his hand into the pile of treats… and let out a blood-curdling scream as he pulled back, a large rat hanging off his finger by its sharp teeth. What followed was a slow motion ballet as Goyle pirouetted idiotically, spinning like a top, howling to beat the train’s whistle all the while, until the rat let go and flew through the air, smacking against the window with a loud thunk. All three of them were out of the compartment as fast as possible and running back down the corridor to their own compartment.

“I don’t like rats,” Goyle said.

“On that,” Draco said, grimacing, “we agree. Filthy, ugly, hideous beasts.”

“Yeah,” Crabbe said, rolling over on the seat and immediately falling asleep.

“Uh-huh,” Goyle said, sucking the injured finger, then following his chum into slumberland a few minutes later.

Draco found it impossible to catch a nap. His mind was entirely too full. Well, he’d certainly rebelled against one of his father’s commands, but then again, who could blame him? Potter was obviously a moronic idiot with lousy taste in friends. Time passed, and Draco stared out the window again, listening to the rhythmic breathing of the other two occupants. Finally, he reached up into the overhead compartment, opened his trunk, and took out one of his books just to peruse it. The light slowly vanished from the sky, the clouds turning pink and gold, then finally replaced with deep blue. Draco looked into the darkness and wondered what the next years would bring to him, trying hard to suppress the memory of that disturbing dream. He knew that soon he would find out if he could be happy here, and, most importantly, whether Pansy Parkinson was anywhere near as much of a knockout as he was.


	7. Sorting Things Out

When the train began to slow, Draco could feel it through the bottom of his shoes, and the sensation seemed to rest in the pit of his stomach, hopping like a peppermint toad (which, incidentally, made him wonder if that Neville kid had ever found his pet). This was it. They were almost there.

Draco gave Crabbe and Goyle each a punch in the arm to wake them up. He’d actually originally tried tapping them, but it didn’t seem to register with either at all. As they finally opened their eyes and yawned lazily, Draco put the cover back over his owl’s cage, earning him a disapproving hoot. 

“We there yet?” Crabbe asked sleepily as he scratched his head.

“Nearly,” Draco said, wondering if he should carry Persephone himself or leave her for the house elves to sort out. 

A quick glance down the corridor showed that no one else was carrying a cage, and, as he expected, the Prefects were calling loudly that everyone’s luggage would be taken care of. At least some things seemed to be up to standard at Hogwarts, then. Still, this also meant he probably wouldn’t see Hermione again until the actual Sorting since she wouldn’t have to return to the compartment for her baggage.

Crabbe, Goyle, and he all made their way simultaneously into the throng of students who were laughing, yelling, pushing, squealing, and, in the case of those who were obviously other first years, staring about in abject terror, completely unsure where to go or what to do. Draco had enough presense of mind to realize that step one was to get off the train car, so rather than stand about with his mouth hanging open in stupified terror as a particular blonde girl in pigtails was doing, he, followed by wordlessly obedient Crabbe and Goyle, descended the train steps and found himself on the railway platform. Step two became clear as soon as a hairy walking mountain came into view.

“Firs’ years! Firs’ years this way!” Hagrid called loudly, and as much as Draco was aware that he wasn’t technically supposed to think of him as human, he did feel a small thrill of relief at seeing somone he at least recognized.

A few minutes later, Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle were seated in a small boat. Draco noticed most of the other boat were carrying four students apiece, but as the boat’s edge had sunk significantly closer to the the lake’s surface as soon as his two new friends had taken their seats, Draco wasn’t about to risk sinking by adding anyone more. He’d heard about the giant squid and didn’t fancy a personal introduction.

The nervous talking of all the new students turned to hushed awe as, at some unknown signal, all the boats left their moorings and began to glide noiselessly across the surface of the glass-smooth water. It was, cliched or not, absolutely magical when he saw the silhouette of the castle resolve itself from the surrounding velvet darkness, its windows blazing with hundreds, perhaps thousands of flickering lights, all the way to the top of what he was sure must be the astronomy tower.

“Pretty,” Goyle murmured, his face showing awe.

“Eh,” Malfoy said, trying his best to sound unimpressed, “it’ll do.”

Maybe it was even good enough for a Malfoy. However, the real test would be the people inside it: were they any good at what they did, did they understand their places in the scheme of things. As he watched the castle grow closer and closer, its reflection looming enormously on the star-studded surface of the lake, Draco had the smallest bit of doubt creeping into his mind. Hogwarts was huge, and rather like with the train, he was beginning to feel unusually small, perhaps even insignificant in comparison. With a shake of his white-blond head, he banished the ridiculous thought in time for the boat to come to a comfortable and delicate stop on the far shore.

“I guess this is our port, boys,” Draco said to the other two.

Goyle got out of the boat at once, still staring up at the castle’s ramparts, but Crabbe was just sitting there.

“Crabbe?” Draco asked. “Something wrong?”

Crabbe looked at him, and Draco realized he was green as a pickle.

“Don’t tell me you’re seasick!” Draco said, laughing. “There wasn’t a ripple out there!”

“Too much candy,” he said miserably, then his head disappeared over the side of the boat, followed by a horrible retching noise.

Draco curled his lip in disgust, but patted Crabbe on the back somewhat sympathetically.

“Done?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Crabbe said, stepping cautiously onto dry land.

“Good,” Draco said, trying not to let the incident get him feeling queasy himself. He wanted to make a wisecrack about taking over the school or being the new princes of Slytherin, but in all honesty he was a bit concerned that if he opened his mouth again, he might do a very good imitation of Crabbe’s previous indisposition.

The gaggle of first years approached the castle cautiously, Hagrid’s lantern bobbing a good ten feet over their heads and creating bizarre shadows on their faces. No one spoke much other than the occasional “Excuse me, didn’t see you there,” or “Hey, watch where you’re going!” in the dark. As the gigantic door of the castle slowly swung open on its hinges, Draco saw a tall woman, her robes a deep green, standing silhouetted against the light coming from a large, impressive entrance hall. At first he couldn’t make out the features of her face, but she seemed quite nicely proportioned..

“Firs’ years, Professor McGonagall,” Hagrid said respectfully.

“Thank you, Hagrid,” she said, “I’ll take them from here.”

Oh, Draco thought after hearing her voice. She’s old. So much for that fantasy.

Over the next few minutes, the professor briefly explained the idea of the houses, the concept of Hogwarts as four families, and a variety of other things that practically bored Draco to tears until she told them to hush and wait to be called in. The first years were left standing outside what they assumed must be the door to the Great Hall, and the command to be quiet needn’t have been given at all. No one felt much like talking as the minutes ticked by, each one feeling like an eternity spent standing on a tiny ledge over a deep pit. 

Then, without warning, a cavalcade of ghosts suddenly slipped through the wall behind them. Draco refrained from screaming, but only just. The poor blonde with pigtails had practically jumped into the arms of the tall boy next to her, earning her a “Darlin’, not that I mind, but you’re on my foot and I’d like to be able to walk without a limp into the Sortin.’”

“Sorry,” she said, her face bright red, and Draco had to grin that at least someone was more nervous than he was.

“Hufflepuff,” he said to Crabbe and Goyle quietly, gesturing to her. “Wait and see.”

But the door had opened and McGonagall stood there, beckoning them in, and all at once Draco knew he’d turned as dead white as the ghosts. This was it. In the next few moments, he would either be admitted to Slytherin or else shame his entire family. His mouth went dry as he processed down the center aisle with the rest of the first years, barely registering the faces of all the other students who were following them towards the front with their eyes. He dimly heard Hermione from somewhere behind him muttering facts about the ceiling and was amazed she was composed enough to notice it. He certainly wasn’t. In fact, he had no intention of looking up, fearing a deadly bolt of lightning at the least.

When the entire group had moved all the way towards a stool at the very front of the room, McGonagall took the Sorting Hat and put it on the stool. Then, unbelievably, the thing started singing. Draco didn’t take in much more than it listing off the houses again. He hadn’t expected the thing to be warbling at him. There was, he thought, a point at which magic was just plain showing off, and a magical hat that in addition to having the power to read personalities also happened to be a relatively good tenor was somewhere a league beyond that point.

When the last notes had died out, along with the predictable thunderous applause, McGonagall began calling them up, one at a time, in alphabetical order by last name, beginning with Blonde Pigtails, as Draco had taken to calling her internally. Just as he’d predicted, Hannah Abbott was indeed a Hufflepuff, and Crabbe and Goyle looked duly impressed while Draco allowed himself a rather smug grin that turned a bit weak as reality hit him again.

One by one, each student was sorted, and he caught only a few names: Bones… Brocklehurst… Bulstrode (whom he would remember never to pick a fight with)... Poor Crabbe looked terrified when he sat on the stool and the hat was whipped onto his head. It seemed to struggle for a moment, though no one could hear the conversation going on between the two, before it finally called out a loud “SLYTHERIN!”

“Well done, mate,” Draco whispered as Crabbe headed towards the green and silver decked table, smiling all the way.

Several more names were read, and each house was gaining students, sometimes with one ahead, now another. Draco tried to keep track of who was going where, but it wasn’t easy. There were too many new names all at once. With a little gasp, Goyle went forward, and the hat seemed to have less trouble placing him than Crabbe as it sang out “SLYTHERIN!” once again, but Draco had taken that as a given after Crabbe. He was more interested in the next girl.

Professor McGonagall stumbled a little over Hermione’s name, and as she walked past, her bushy hair somehow even bushier with nerves, Draco gave her what he hoped was an encouraging wink and a nod, though he wasn’t sure she saw it. She nervously sat on the stool, and the hat paused a while before it gave its final, incontrovertable verdict.

“GRYFFINDOR!”

Draco stood dumb-struck. Gryffindor? But… why? She was obviously intelligent. Even Ravenclaw he could have understood, perhaps, but the rivalry between Slytherin and Gryffindor was the stuff of legends. As she came past him down the steps, he couldn’t think of how to react. All he knew was he was sorry for her failure… and that he was desperate the same thing wouldn’t happen to him.

More names were called, and the group was getting smaller. All at once, he heard “Malfoy, Draco,” spoken, and he moved forward as though he were in a dream. The sound of his footsteps seemed abnormally loud on the stone floor, and he thought again of how he still hadn’t got his father’s knack of nearly feline silence. He turned round to face the hall packed full of students, every face turned towards him, and it didn’t even seem like they were blinking. He sat, feeling all at once that the stool was picked to make the students feel like utter berks as their legs dangled into space, making them appear six years old. It probably had taken all of three seconds for him to take his place, but it might as well have been three hours. Then, he saw the shadow of the hat move over him, could sense it reaching closer to his head, it was nearly there.

“SLYTHERIN!” it screamed.

It was almost anticlimatic, not that he was complaining. In fact, he wasn’t even sure if it had actually made contact with his head. Draco let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and strutted to the Slytherin table, where he was roundly patted on the back. Still, though, there were two names he was particularly interested in, and they shouldn’t be far in the distance.

Draco scanned the girls who were still left to be Sorted, wondering which was his bride-to-be, but he hadn’t long to wait.

“Parkinson, Pansy,” McGonagall said, and he realized he was on the edge of his seat.

It was another slow-motion moment as the small crowd on the stage paused for a moment, and then one of the black-clad figures disengaged itself from the rest. He was aware of her shoes first. As opposed to the rest of the group, who were wearing perfectly identical robes and hats, and nearly identical trainers or non-descript boots, this girl was wearing emerald green satin slippers with a sparkle of rhinestones over the toe that glittered as she walked, drawing his eye to the outlandish difference at once. From there, his gaze travelled upward (sadly, he couldn’t tell much at all about her under that baggy black robe), finally coming to rest on her face. 

He didn’t really have too much to complain about, he thought, though she wasn’t as attractive as he was. Then again, he couldn’t expect the poor girl to live up to his high standards, at least not at eleven. She had remarkably smooth-looking fair skin, a sharply pointed jaw and equally defined cheekbones that gave her an expression of haughty disdain fitting her social level, an upturned nose that rather reminded him not unpleasantly of his mother, and dark eyes that flashed almost angrily. Her hair was nearly the same shade of black as her robes and cut just below her jawline, swinging in what he had to admit was a quite fetchingly way as she sat down on the stool. Before the hat was even on her head, he knew what it was going to say, and he wasn’t wrong.

“SLYTHERIN!” it called out at once, and then she was walking towards the table.

Correction: she was walking towards him. Cue panic. Of course she would be walking towards him, he thought. She would have watched him be Sorted earlier, so she would already know who he was, and it wasn’t as though he really blended well in a crowd. He blinked, and she was at his elbow. She gave a cool glance to the boy sitting next to him.

“Who are you again?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Theodore Nott,” he said, running a quick gaze up and down her robes.

She smiled, one side of her mouth going up higher than the other.

“I want your seat. Leave,” she said, and there was something in her voice that prompted Nott, despite having a good five inches worth of height on her, to get up and quickly go to the other side of the table.

Draco was rather taken aback, but not necessarily in a bad way, as she slipped between him and the boy to her left, then gave him an appraising look.

“Good evening,” she finally said, and he remembered his manners and inclined his head towards hers in recognition of her greeting.

“Evening,” he said, then fished about desperately in his head for anything to say until something he’d read once in a magazine article about girls came back to him. “Ehm, nice shoes?”

She smiled again, a slow smile that suggested he’d said exactly the right thing, then glanced under the table at her slippers.

“Mummy and Daddy weren’t happy about my wearing them; they thought it would be too showy, but then what’s the point of coming to this dreadful little school if not to show off? Those are real emeralds, by the way,” she said, wiggling her toes inside them to set them sparkling like green fire. “You really like them, Draco?”

“Sure. Slytherin green and all that. Not that I want to borrow them or something,” he added quickly.

She laughed, though he thought it was rather a strange sound, almost as though she’d rehearsed it. It sounded… he couldn’t help thinking that oddly enough her laugh sounded like her shoes: expensive and coldly glittering. 

“I’m glad of that,” she said, then glanced back up to the Sorting stool. “Oh, look, the Potter boy is up.”

Draco directed his attention back to the front of the room. This was the only other person he’d really been curious to see Sorted. If Potter wound up in Slytherin, Draco supposed they had an opportunity of patching things up, which would please his father, but if not, well, the die was probably cast. He watched critically as the boy sat on the stool for what seemed like an age, far longer than any other student that night, and yet the hat remained silent, though Potter’s mouth seemed to be moving without a sound as his face screwed up with concentration. Something was going on, that much was certain. Then, without warning:

“GRYFFINDOR!” it called out to wild applause from the far table as Harry Potter jogged over to be congratulated enthusiastically.

Oddly, the thought occurred to Draco that Harry Potter was now in the same house as Hermione. He didn’t know why that irked him, but it was almost like having an itch he couldn’t reach: out of his control, but annoying.

“Should have known,” Pansy sniffed quietly at his elbow. “He looks like a weak-willed, wishy-washy, brainless sort of do-gooder.”

Draco grunted agreement as the last few people were sorted, ending with Blaise Zabini, who might, Draco grudgingly thought, be almost as handsome as himself. Thankfully, Dumbledore’s speech was brief, some four or five words, and then the food appeared on the tables. There were piles of it, immense loads of practically everything he could imagine, including, yes, his favorite roast. The house elves in the kitchens must be extremely talented, Draco thought as he chewed. This was easily the most delicious, succulent roast he’d ever tasted. Perhaps the Malfoy estate elves were holding back? No, he thought, stabbing a particularly golden-brown potato with his fork, not possible. Who would ever take offense to being a servant of a Malfoy? A house elf couldn’t possibly ask for more than that.

Draco listened with half an ear to the start of term announcements, including a rather eerie one concerning a painful death for going down some corridor or other (personally, until he was certain where he was going, he’d make sure not to go down any corridor first), and then the room started to empty as students went on their way to their new homes-away-from-home. But before the general melee swept everyone in separate directions, Draco subtly extracted himself from the Slytherin crowd, cautiously approaching the far end of the Gryffindor table. Gently, he tapped Hermione on the shoulder, and she turned around with a start.

“Oh,” she said, looking relieved. “It’s you. Sorry, I guess I’m still a little on edge.”

Draco smiled, glancing nervously in the direction of the Slytherin table, but no one seemed to be looking this way.

“Look, just wanted to say I’m sorry you wound up in Gryffindor,” Draco said, earning a look of loathing from the boy who’d become so closely acquainted with Hannah Abbot in the entryway. 

“It’s okay,” Hermione said with a smile. “I think I’ll do well enough here.”

“Even so,” Draco said, feeling uncomfortable, then saying in a rush, “still friends, then?”

Hermione looked mildly surprised, then nodded. “Of course we’re still friends. I don’t even know anyone else yet. All this house business is really rather silly, isn’t it? I mean, we’re all at Hogwarts, aren’t we?”

“Right,” Draco said, feeling oddly relieved. “I’ve got to go. Goodnight.”

“Night,” she said, following the rest of the first year Gryffindors out of the hall and off to wherever Gryffindors went.

Draco returned to the Slytherins just in time to bring up the rear, his sidetrip completely unnoticed, or so he thought.

“Where were you?” said a voice he already recognized, and the tone was not amused.

“Just giving my condolences to someone I met on the train who didn’t wind up in Slytherin,” he told Pansy, though he really didn’t see why he had to explain himself to her.

“Oh,” she said, eyeing the back of Hermione’s head as she disappeared through the door. “For pity’s sake, does she have a doxy nest in her hair? I haven’t seen anything that bushy that wasn’t, well, a bush.”

She turned back to Draco, smiling agin.

“Some people just have no taste at all. I’m sure she’ll be much happier with her new little friends at her own social level… far below ours,” she finished as the line went down a long set of stairs, heading towards what Draco assumed must be the dungeons.

He couldn’t help feeling that, while Pansy certainly showed proper Slytherin and Pureblood pride, there was something just slightly unpleasant about her attitude. In a way, it seemed to mimic the place they were going. Why should the great and powerful rulers of the Wizarding world be stuffed down in the basement like a bunch of out of season Yule ornaments? It was damp down here, and there was an unpleasant odor of mildew. When they finally reached the entryway to Slytherin, the prefect, whose name Draco didn’t bother to learn, told them to remember the password for their common room: “Salazar.”

At the word, the door slid open, and a large, stone-floored room came into view. Green chairs were scattered around the common room, and a very large fireplace was lit with a warm blaze that did a good deal to make the rather austere surroundings more homey. The first year boys and girls were separated, Pansy giving him a wave goodnight as she disappeared down a hallway with the rest of the new Slytherin girls. Draco, Crabbe, Goyle, Zabini, and Nott were grouped together in a single room decorated with five large four-poster beds with emerald green and silver coverings. The walls, the same cut stone as the floor, were hung with green velvet drapes. There were several windows, which rather surprised Draco at first since they were many floors below ground, and, if his mental geography were correct, under the lake as well. On closer inspection, these proved to be magical portals through which they could see the Hogwarts grounds, receive fresh air, and even have owl deliveries. Draco tentatively stuck his hand out one and wondered what window high up in the castle his detached hand was sticking out of.

Draco’s trunk was sitting at the edge of one bed, and a note placed on it stated his owl had safely arrived at the owlry and had been set loose for the evening. He opened the trunk and carefully inspected his clothes, then arranged his books that he would need for tomorrow’s classes. He took his pajamas out, then wondered briefly whether he should simply change where he was or if that was usually done in the lavoratory, but a glance around showed that Goyle was already into his own, and Blaise was just pulling on his nightshirt. Draco realized he hadn’t had the chance to introduce himself to his other roommates.

“I’m Draco Malfoy,” he offered from across the bed, noticing out of the corner of his eye that the poles of the four-poster were actually carved with snakes. Well, he thought, home sweet home indeed.

“Theodore Nott,” said the boy across the room, who was really quite tall for a first year, though he offered nothing else.

“Blaise Zabini,” said the black boy across from him, “though I’m sure we all know each other’s names already after the Sorting.”

“True,” Draco said. “It just seemed the polite thing to do.”

“I’m tired,” Goyle said, yawning.

“Yeah,” Theodore agreed. “It’s been a long day. I’m turning in.”

“Probably best,” Draco admitted, though he’d rather hoped the others would want to stay up for a while. He’d never felt less sleepy in his life.

“Does anyone know when Quidditch season starts?” Crabbe asked as he climbed into bed.

“Try-outs are soon, though there’s no point in it for first years; we’re never chosen,” Blaise said.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Draco replied with a shrug. “There’s always an exception to the rule, isn’t there?”

Blaise regarded him steadily. “Perhaps,” he admitted, then slipped under his covers, rolled onto his side, and became as still as stone. Draco found it a little unnerving.

Draco himself got into bed shortly after, and the sheets were startlingly cold to his bare feet. As he was the last one to bed, the torches burning in brackets on the walls automatically dimmed, and Draco was alone with a swirl of thoughts: Hogwarts, the Sorting, Pansy, Crabbe, Goyle, Hermione, books, Potter, Quidditch, Persephone, the first day of school tomorrow, not to mention the roast that was sitting like a brick now in his stomach. He stared up at the ceiling, not sure what to make of any of it. Finally, in the early morning hours, he was drifted off to sleep.


	8. Promise Kept

Draco awoke the next morning with a sharp pain in his left kneecap. As soon as he could pry his eyelids open, he was able to see that the jabbing sensation was caused by Persephone’s highly insistent beak.

“Lay off, will you?” he mumbled semi-coherently as he rolled over, only to have the graceful bird alight on his head indignantly and hoot at a volume he didn’t know an owl could reach.

“Alright, alright, I’m up,” he said, stretching stiffly. He’d slept reasonably well the night before, but it wasn’t his bed, not that it was uncomfortable, really. He supposed he simply missed the manor. In time, he was sure, Slytherin would feel like home… granted, a drippy, damp, underground lair of home, the sort that might cause rheumatism and an infestation of doxies, but if it had been good enough for generations of his ancestors, complaining about it wouldn’t help. He flinched, though, when he thought what the accommodations for the other, lesser houses must be like. For Hermione’s sake he hoped Gryffindor at least had a roof.

Persephone had fluttered to a small desk next to Draco’s bed and was insistently tapping the blank paper with her beak.

“Okay, okay, I get it, Mother said to write,” Draco said, yawning widely before sitting down at the desk. “Quit it before you wake the others.”

Persephone seemed to shrug in response to his worries and continued to tap her clawed foot impatiently until Draco dipped a quill into the waiting ink, then sucked absently on the tip as he tried to think of what to say.

Dear Mother and Father,

“No,” he said. “Not right.”

He crunched the paper into a tight wad and threw it over his shoulder. It accidentally bounced off Goyle’s head, but it had no effect. Dipping the quill in the ink again, he began afresh.

Dear Father and Mother,

“Plebian,” he said in disgust, and this sheet joined its brother on the ground. Persephone stared with increasing disbelief as Draco worked his way through at least twenty sheets of parchment, tossing aside such greetings as Most Revered and Excellent Sir and Madam and Honorable Parents and Hail, Purebloods that Have Caused Me to Be. At one point he seriously considered addressing the letter To Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy. With a sigh after he had scrawled Hey you! across a paper in sheer frustration, he resigned himself to the obvious.

Dear Mother and Father,

Persephone gave him a pitying look.

“Yeah, yeah, back where I started, so sue me,” he said to her.

The results of the Sorting have been exactly as they should be, and I am writing to you from the Slytherin first year dormitory. 

It’s damp.

Draco stopped, squinted, then threw the paper onto the rapidly rising discard pile.

“Too whiney.”

Dear Mother and Father,

I have been Sorted into Slytherin and am pleased to be in the house of my forebears. 

“Even if it is damp,” he mumbled under his breath as his pen continued to scratch along the page.

I am starting classes today, first History of Magic with Professor Binns and then double Herbology with Professor Sprout. I believe that class is with the Ravenclaws.

Draco tapped his pen in a rapid staccato against the desk, tiny drops of ink spattering everywhere. He wasn’t quite sure how to proceed. There was a great deal he wanted to say, but he wasn’t really sure if it was appropriate to speak to his parents about such things.

I also met 

“Miss Parkinson? Pansy? My intended? The fiance I ruddy well didn’t know existed until a few weeks ago? The relatively hot girl with the highly expensive shoes?” Draco thought in consternation.

Pansy Parkinson last evening.

He considered carefully how to phrase the next statement. Frankly, he wasn’t entirely sure about the girl. She was adequately pretty, obviously wealthy if those were in fact real emeralds on her shoes, and also a pureblood Slytherin of noble parentage. He supposed that his alliance with her wasn’t the worst thing that could happen to him, and she seemed suitably impressed with him. There was no reason to think their relationship wouldn’t work according to plan… several years from now.

She seems suitable.

There, he thought, nodding. It wasn’t a soppy rendering of hearts and flowers, thank Circe, yet it didn’t seem entirely cold. Persephone had taken a perch on the back of the chair on which he was sitting and gazed down at the paper as though she could read. She glared at the words, then shifted her gaze back to Draco. He could have sworn she raised an eyebrow at him, despite her complete lack of eyebrows.

“What?” he said, nonplussed.

She hooted disdainfully, and Draco returned to his letter.

I also met Crabbe and Goyle on the train ride.

He blinked for a moment as he realized it didn’t even occur to him to call his new “best friends” Vincent and Gregory. They were Crabbe and Goyle. Shrugging and deciding to figure out later why he couldn’t comfortably use their first names, he plowed on.

They’re not on a mental level with Malfoys, of course, and I think they may need some tending to, but otherwise they too are adequate companionship. The other Slytherin boys are Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini. 

“And we all live together in a damp dungeon under the lake,” he griped again. Persephone poked him once on the top of his head with her beak, and he immediately raised a hand to smooth his hair back into place.

Draco considered mentioning his brush with Potter and his friend the poverty-stricken redhead, then realized his father might not be at all pleased with the outcome of that situation. Perhaps it would be better to leave that for another time. Still, one major question lurked in the back of his mind, one that he wasn’t sure how to phrase, but it was bothering him to no end.

I know that you were both worried by the number of mudbloods Dumbledore has permitted to enter the school. However, perhaps he has had a change of heart. I didn’t see anyone that looked like a mudblood in the Great Hall last night. Everyone appeared to be eating normally with knives and forks, no brawls occurred, and all the students were capable of speaking clearly and following basic directions. Could Dumbledore have locked up all of them somewhere else for the night so they wouldn’t disturb the Purebloods while we ate? Is it possible he’s sent them all back to their hovels?

He looked over the last few lines carefully, trying to be sure he was putting everything just as he had seen and heard it. From his earliest days he had been informed over and over again about the hideous things that were mudbloods, how they only looked human but really weren’t, were barely capable of grunting a few words, little better than a troll could do, and were utterly, completely revolting in appearance and manners. No, he was quite sure not a single one had been in the hall last night, and he was glad of it. Persephone poked him on the head again with her beak and gave him a significant look until Draco remembered one thing he’d left out.

Thank you very much for the owl. She should make a very good pet.

He scanned the letter carefully for errors, then signed his name in a flourish at the bottom.

Draco Malfoy

He tilted his head to one side, considering, then dashed a postscript onto the page in smaller print.

P.S. Though the food here is quite good, I do miss Dobby’s taffy.

A little request for sweets wouldn’t go amiss, he thought. He carefully attached the letter to Persephone’s leg, and she was off like a shot through the false window and off into the sky, speeding towards home. With a sigh of relief at having finished his task, Draco finally looked around the room and realized his four roommates were not only awake but had already left for breakfast.

“Bloody hell! I’m going to be late for the first day!” he yelled to no one, grabbed his entire pile of new schoolbooks rather than wasting time to search through them for the ones he needed, and sped out of the room. 

Two minutes later, he returned, grabbed his forgotten wand from the nightstand, then left again. 

Two minutes after that, he tore into the room again, changed out of his pajamas and into his Hogwarts robes, thanked his lucky stars that the common room had been empty and the only commenter had been the rather snooty mirror over the fireplace, and sped off for the third and final time. 

He just missed the arrival of a pair of owls that collided with each other in the window of his room. One, obviously a school owl of relatively low standing, hooted in indignation, while the other, a very large owl with remarkably orange eyes, gave an offended shriek. They looked at each other with suspicion and a shadow of loathing, then deposited a letter each on Draco’s bed before flying off once more, their wings jostling one another in a show of angry (and quite literal) ruffled feathers.


	9. History, Herbology, and the Hospital Wing

Draco arrived outside the classroom for History of Magic only slightly out of breath. In truth, he had been puffing like a locomotive, but not wanting to look like a fool, he had stopped briefly in the boy’s lavatory for a full minute, regardless of whether it would make him late, to pull himself together, make sure his sleek blond hair was flawless, and reacquire the necessary look of bored hauteur for his rank. He was pleased to realize that the rest of Slytherin house was also gathered by the door, meaning he was not yet late. Casually, he strolled up to Goyle and Crabbe.

“You missed breakfast,” Goyle said, giving him a pitying look as though this were the worst possible fate that could befall anyone.

“I wasn’t really hungry this morning,” Draco said with a shrug. “That was a big feast last night.”

His stomach punctuated the lie with a thunderous growl that he studiously ignored.

“I wonder what Binns will be like,” a Slytherin girl with dark hair and sharply pointed features said to Pansy.

“No idea, Daphne,” Pansy said, giving Draco a winning smile. “History’s all about dead people anyway, so really, who cares? Ghosts?”

Theodore smothered a laugh at her comment that Draco found rather inappropriate, but as the door to the classroom had just unlocked itself, he was too busy pushing towards the front of the line to do more than give Theodore a disapproving glare. 

Draco was closely followed by Crabbe and Goyle in taking seats in the back of the class. The ancient desks were covered in rather a lot of graffiti, Draco thought as he stared at them with a critical eye, wondering just how bored students had to be to create so much damage. On his own desktop alone he found a variety of curses, a nicely detailed snitch, a drawing of a quarter moon and a star that were engraved so deeply they must have been traced over hundreds of times along with a heart containing the letters RL and SB, whoever they were, and the truly offensive epithet “Slytherin stinks.” He firmly and rather loudly set his books down on top of the scrawled words and turned to Crabbe, who was looking confused.

“What’s a prongs?” he asked, pointing to the word on his desk.

Draco shrugged, then noticed something.

“Where are your books?” he asked.

“Books?” Crabbe asked.

“Yeah, you know, the textbook for the class,” Draco said, speaking rather slowly, a habit he was sure he would need to pick up. “Did you leave it in the room?”

“I didn’t know we needed it,” Crabbe said, frowning.

“Yeah,” Goyle, who turned out to be similarly text-less agreed. “What do we need with a book on the first day?”

Draco sighed.

“You two can look on with me, then,” he said, opening the creaky tome that was rather intimidatingly thick as the two pulled their chairs in closer on either side of him, leaving Draco barely room to breath. He was just about to tell them to back up when he suddenly used up the little remaining air left in his lung to yelp loudly.

A ghost had just come through the blackboard, and Draco’s hadn’t been the only surprised cry. In fact, Pansy’s friend Daphne had actually fallen out of her seat in surprise and Pansy herself, who had been applying lipgloss, had missed her mouth entirely and had a streak of begonia pink across her chin.

“I am Professor Binns, and this is History of Magic,” the ghost said in a monotone. “We will be beginning in your text with chapter one, ‘Primordial Magical Events.’ Turn to page three.”

Draco glanced over at Nott, who had given a quiet chuckle at the uproar. He remembered the laugh in the hall at Pansy’s expense and realized Theodore must have known Binns was a ghost. Well, he supposed given the circumstances it really was understandable why he’d laughed. Draco decided he’d let the affront to his… he couldn’t get used to thinking of her as his fiancé… even “girlfriend” seemed too odd… what exactly was she, anyway? Well, in any case, he’d let Nott’s laugh slip this once without incident.

For the next two hours, Binns rattled on about early cave-dwelling wizards who had been able to conjure fire and levitate rocks at attacking saber toothed tigers, but as much as those topics seemed like they could have made for a decent story, Binns did not have a flare for the dramatic. By the end of class, three-quarters of the students were sound asleep, including Crabbe, who was draped over his desk like a lumpy, snoring tablecloth. Goyle was awake, but his eyes were glazed over. When Binns exited through the blackboard once more, Draco felt nearly as relieved as he had when he was sorted into Slytherin.

“Wake up,” Draco said, rapping Crabbe smartly on the back of the head with a knuckle. “The torture’s over.”

“What’d I miss?” Crabbe said, scratching his head and yawning.

“Blaise drooling in his sleep was pretty much the highlight,” Draco said. “Come on, let’s get out of here. Herbology has to be better than this tripe. Goyle?”

Goyle continued to sit, motionless, staring into space, until an alarmed Draco punched him in the arm and he started awake.

“You can sleep with your eyes open?” Draco said, not sure whether to be impressed or slightly sick.

“Uh-huh,” he said as the three of them followed the rest of the Slytherins down the corridor.

“Actually, in this class, that could be the most useful skill possible,” Draco admitted. “Now, where are the greenhouses?”

“Outside?” Crabbe ventured.

“Probably,” Draco sighed.

The three jogged lightly into the hallway, and Draco just caught sight of Blaise, half a head taller than any of the other first years, turning right down a corridor. Draco followed, Crabbe and Goyle at his heels, but by the time they had reached the spot, the Slytherins had disappeared once more, and this time they could have chosen to go down any of three separate corridors, behind a tapestry, or up a staircase. Hell, Draco thought, they could have dropped though the floor for all he knew.

“Uh…,” Goyle said. “I’m lost.”

“No kidding,” Draco said, exasperated but realizing “lost” was probably a permanent condition for his new friends. “Actually, Crabbe probably had the best idea.”

“I did?” he said, looking pleased.

“Yeah. Greenhouse has to be outside, so we go out the front door and circle the castle until we find them,” Draco said. “The Great Hall is back this way, I think.”

The three boys wandered back through the twisted passageways as an almost eerie quiet descended over the corridors. The last students had slipped into their classrooms, and there was absolutely no doubt they were now good and late for their first herbology class. By some miracle, the caretaker who had seemed so threatening at dinner the night before was nowhere to be seen, so they were able to sneak through the front door without incident.

It was the first time Draco had seen the castle and its grounds by daylight, and really, it was rather a lovely spot, he decided, even as he, Crabbe, and Goyle ran haphazardly around the gigantic building. He remembered an old book of fairytales he’d had when he was very small, in which there had been a drawing of a tall castle that looked something like this. The story itself had been about a princess who was asleep in the tallest tower, and a prince had needed to fight a dragon to kiss her awake. He’d rather liked the story, but the picture had been weirdly stationary. Shortly after he had read it his father had burned it, telling him it was trash that mixed Mudblood tales with Wizarding ones and that he was to forget it entirely. It was one of the few times he remembered when crying didn’t get him his own way. In fact, he’d been sent to bed without dinner.

As they rounded yet another corner of the extremely large castle, Draco was nearly blinded by light glinting off glass.

“Looks like we found them,” Draco said, his eyes darting from one apparently identical greenhouse to the next. “The question is, which one.”

The interior of each building was so crowded with greenery that it was impossible to tell which one the Slytherins were inside. Draco didn’t like the idea of just opening a door and falling into a class that had already begun, but there didn’t seem much else to do. He swung open the door of the first greenhouse in the row, whose door bore a large, scarlet number six, and peered cautiously inside.

It appeared to be empty of human occupants, but the plants themselves were moving, and fast at that. In less time than it took to turn around and say, “No one here,” a dazzling, sickeningly pink geranium bit through Draco’s robes and into his leg.

Draco screamed, wagging his leg frantically from side to side in an effort to shake off the deranged flower that was tenaciously clinging to his flesh. Crabbe and Goyle, terrified by their leader’s situation, echoed the screams and ran away, flailing their arms wildly. The noise echoed through the greenhouse as Draco continued to attempt prying the plant off his leg by throwing various jinxes at it and, when that proved completely useless, grabbing a nearby flowerpot and repeatedly banging the plant over the head with it. Instead of making it let go, it instead emitted a loud squealing noise that brought six other geraniums hopping towards him, their teeth bared threateningly and growling in an oddly high-pitched tone.

“Back off!” Draco yelled, but the order did no good at all.

Thankfully, at that moment the greenhouse door flew open and a short little witch with grey hair came running into the room, waving her wand frantically.

“ _Stupify_!” she called out, and at once all seven flowers dropped to the ground, completely inanimate once again.

“Thank Morgana,” Draco mumbled as he hobbled away from the scene of floral attack.

The witch, however, ran directly past him and stooped to look at the flowers, then rounded on him.

“Do you have any idea how expensive a Fanged Geranium is? How long it takes to raise them? The extent of the damage you’ve just done?” she said, cradling one of the broken pots.

“My father will pay for it,” he snapped, annoyed. “I’m bleeding over here, you know!”

“And that’s about what you should expect! Imagine, a first year wandering into greenhouse six and provoking the plants,” she tutted.

“I wasn’t provoking them! I walked in the door and that thing jumped me!” he said, growing angrier by the second.

“Ten points from Slytherin,” the professor said gravely, “for your total lack of caution. Now, let me see that leg.”

Draco raised the hem of his robes to reveal a ragged gash through the lower part of his left trouser leg, and beneath it a wound that was oozing blood and what appeared to be green pus. He also became aware that he had an audience present as someone shifted in the doorway behind him. He turned his head to realize the entire class was standing outside and staring in curiously at the scene. Great. Exactly what he needed on his first day.

“You’ll need to go to the hospital wing,” the teacher said. “Fanged Geranium venom isn’t terribly dangerous, but it can lead to permanent discoloration of the skin, and if you don’t want a green leg to match your Slytherin robes for the rest of your life, you’ll need to see Madam Pomfrey at once.”

“And where exactly,” Draco said through gritted teeth, “is Madam Pomfrey located?”

“The hospital wing, of course,” the teacher said as though this were the most obvious thing in the world.

“And where exactly,” Draco said, his voice showing considerable starin, “is the hospital wing located?”

“I’ll show him, Professor,” Blaise said calmly. “I was there this morning.”

“Very well. Class, back to mixing dragon dung fertilizer. What is your name?” she said, turning to Draco once more.

“Malfoy,” he said, ennunciating the name clearly in hopes this crazy woman would have the good sense to be ashamed of treating the son of one of the best wizarding families in so shabby a manner. “Draco Mayfoy.”

“Oh,” she said, sounding more weary than impressed. “Of course. Be sure to get notes on the class from your two friends later.”

Draco hobbled outside towards Zabini. He was frankly unsure what to make of the other boy. He had barely spoken at dinner last night and not at all this morning, not that Binns’s class was particularly condusive to student participation, other than loud snoring, of course. There was something just a little strange about him, something oddly rarified, as though he’d spent his childhood in truly extraordinary luxury, possibly moreso than even Draco himself. 

Draco instinctively disliked that.

“Does it hurt?” Blaise asked, peering curiously at the wound.

“No,” he huffed out. “I actually enjoy bleeding and oozing pus. It’s my very favorite hobby. Of course it hurts!” 

Blaise sniffed somewhat indifferently.

“I suppose you’ll have to lean on me,” he said, regarding Draco with as wary an eye as the other boy was looking at him.

Draco was mortified to realize that he actually did need help to walk, and he found himself leaning rather heavily on Blaise.

“How much further is it?” he asked, actually starting to feel woozy but desperately not wanting to pass out.

“Not far,” he said blandly, “but there are some stairs between here and there.”

“Bloody hell, be more careful!” Draco growled at him abruptly as they continued down a corridor, each step sending a stab through his injury. “It feels like I’ve got sparks inside my leg!”

Blaise had no visible reaction to this pronouncement, though he did slow down slightly.

“Professor Sprout had just been telling the class about the importance of not going into any of the other greenhouses when we heard you screaming. It underscored the lesson nicely,” he said.

“I wasn’t screaming,” Draco lied quickly. “I may have yelled in surprise, but that’s all.”

“You screamed,” Blaise said, a direct statement of fact. 

“I didn’t,” Draco said, practically daring him to say it again, but to his annoyance Blaise simply continued walking, though the ghost of a smug smile was at the corner of his mouth. They continued in silence until they reached the stairs, which turned out to be a rather long, steep flight. ““What idiot decided to make the hospital wing upstairs?” he grumbled. “Didn’t they stop to think that injured people would be walking up there?”

Blaise shrugged, the motion unsettling Draco’s arm and nearly knocking him off balance. Draco was forced to grab the carved stone banister with his left hand and continue supporting himself heavily on Blaise’s shoulder to navigate the steps. The continued silence was unnerving, and Draco eventually broke it.

“So why were you in the hospital wing this morning?” he asked him, hoping the answer would be something suitably embarrassing.

“I found myself rather dyspeptic after last night’s feast,” he said smoothly.

Dyspeptic? Draco thought. Who in the world actually says the word dyspeptic?

“Well, we’re here,” he said as they crested the top of the stairs. “Madam Pomfrey is right through that door. I hope she fixes your leg adequately.”

“Thanks,” Draco called after him before clapping a hand over his mouth in shock at the completely inappropriate response. He had to stop doing that.

“You’re quite welcome,” he said over his shoulder as he disappeared down the stairs.

Two hours later, a rather pale but no longer green Draco emerged from the hospital wing, his leg smarting but emptied of venom. He’d easily missed the rest of double herbology for the day, and the lack of breakfast was making lunch sound extremely appealing. The problem was he couldn’t allow himself to be seen with his robes in such a state. He made his way back towards the Slytherin common room, up to his dormitory, and began rummaging through his trunk for his other set of robes. With any luck, the school house-elves would be able to fix his bitten ones. Just as he was about to leave, he noticed the two letters lying on his bed.


	10. Post and Porringer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco gets two letters: one he was hoping for, and one he was dreading.

Despite his loudly grumbling stomach, Draco groaned and sat down on his bed, carefully propping up his still throbbing leg. 

“I hope these are short letters,” he groused to himself.

Draco picked up the one written on heavier parchment first, slid his finger under the green wax seal imprinted with the Hogwarts crest, and unfolded the paper. No sooner did he see the name at the end of it than he groaned again, this time not in hunger but in dread.

_Hail Godson,_

_Please accept my congratulations upon your Sorting into Slytherin. You have adequately completed your first step towards maintaining the honor of an old and illustrious family. As per the request of your esteemed parents, I invite you to partake of tea with me this afternoon in my office at 3:00. We shall discuss matters of some import regarding your time at Hogwarts. Punctuality is highly desirable as I do not relish being kept waiting._

_Respectfully,_

_Professor Severus Snape  
Head of Slytherin House_

His godfather’s signature was like the rest of his writing: somewhat spidery and written in a watery black ink that looked almost purple. Draco stared at it for a few seconds before huffing out a great sigh.

“Just what I wanted,” he said, “tea with the happiest man on the planet… if every other male were dead.”

Still, there seemed no way around it. The invitation really had the flavor of a command about it, and he guessed that tea with Professor Snape was not likely to be the most fun experience he would have at Hogwarts. On the other hand, at the very least he could expect a sandwich and perhaps biscuits out of the ordeal, and as Draco was beginning to suspect that lunch would be entirely picked over by the time he made it to the Great Hall, that was at least something.

Draco took the other letter in hand, and he suddenly found himself hoping desperately that it wasn’t from Dumbledore arguing about his spying on his own family and friends again. He hadn’t really given it much thought since he found he couldn’t even open his mouth to speak about the situation, but he felt uncomfortably that the matter wasn’t really closed. However, the rather flimsy parchment didn’t seem Dumbledore’s style at all. He broke the very modest wax seal on the letter and opened it with still some trepidation. A moment later, though, his face split into a smile.

_Dear Draco,_

_I do hope I’m spelling that right. I quite forgot to ask you whether it was a k or c on the train. If it’s wrong, do tell me. I can’t bear getting details like that wrong, can you? Of course, with my name, I’ve seen every spelling there is, but I still find it annoying._

_Anyway, I thought I’d drop you a quick note before the first day began. I’ve been up since dawn; it’s not so much that I can’t sleep or I’m an early riser as one of the other Gryffindor girls, though I probably shouldn’t say which one, has a really rafter-rattling snore that’s going to take some getting used to, or at least a good pair of ear stoppers._

_Gryffindor Tower is really quite lovely. Everything is done up in scarlet and gold, and there’s a great, cozy fireplace in our common room. The view is really wonderful from the girls’ dormitory; I can see all the way out to the Forbidden Forest and even a little beyond if I squint a bit._

“Wait,” Draco said aloud. “They get a tower and we get a dank dungeon? How is that fair!”

_I’m off to breakfast and then classes. Gryffindors have Charms first it seems, followed by History of Magic. Do you think we could meet up around 3:00 to swap stories about the lessons we’ve had? If so, let me know. I hope your first day goes well. I’m so nervous about not knowing everything in the texts yet. I’ll be lucky if I don’t make a fool of myself._

_Best of luck,_

_Hermione_

Draco’s face fell as he realized he was going to be with his godfather at the exact time Hermione wanted to meet, and he found himself disappointed. He would have particularly liked to get her impression of Binns. Still, it couldn’t be helped. He pulled a quill, ink, and parchment from his desk and set about writing a note.

_Dear Hermione,_

_See. Your name’s not so hard to spell, and you’re right, there’s no k in Draco. I can’t make tea today as I’m meeting with my godfather, Professor Snape, who teaches Potions. I think Gryffindors and Slytherins take that class together. He should be…_

“Boring? Depressed? Gloomy?” Draco supplied, then shrugged.

_…well versed in the subject as he’s an accomplished potions maker. At any rate, I regret I will be unable to meet with you today. Perhaps later in the week would work better._

Draco stared at the letter for a while, being sure all the necessary requirements were fulfilled: logical explanation as to why he had to turn down the invitation (and true, not that truth was something that mattered all that much in excuses), check; casual showing of connections of importance between himself and a member of the Hogwarts staff, check; polite request for a future meeting to show he had no intention of offending a Pure-blood young lady even if she was not his betrothed, check. Now he just needed a suitable closing and the letter should be a success. After much thought, he scrawled at the bottom of the note

_With warm regards,_

_Draco Malfoy_

“Perfect,” he said, nodding to himself approvingly. 

For a moment, he toyed with adding a postscript asking whether or not Gryffindor Tower was, by any chance, bone-chillingly damp, but decided it might come off as whinging and skipped it, sealed the letter, then wondered how exactly he was supposed to call Persephone to pick it up. He walked over to the window, stuck his head out, and twisted around to stare up at the Owlery.

“Hey!” he yelled in its general direction. “Any of you lot up?”

He supposed it wasn’t terribly dignified, but at the moment Draco didn’t care. He didn’t feel like walking all the way up to that tower just to wake up Persephone, not with his leg in the state it was in. As luck would have it, a rather striking white owl was clearly visible in one of the Owlery’s windows, and even from there Draco could see two glints that meant her eyes were opened.

“Oi! You!” he said, waving frantically. “Come here, yeah?”

The owl seemed to be considering him somewhat resentfully, and Draco was almost sure it was going to flutter off to bed when she surprised him by flapping her wings sluggishly and taking to the air, heading straight for him. Sure enough, she landed with a composed ruffling of feathers on the windowsill and looked about uncertainly for a moment before stepping into the room.

“Yeah, I know, it’s a pit,” he said. “Would you take this to Hermione Granger?”

The owl gave him a rather conceited look, but held out her leg obediently enough so he could tie the parchment securely. When he’d finished, she gazed at him coldly.

“Well, go on!” he said loudly. “Shoo!”

The bird did not move.

“Why aren’t you leaving?” he asked, annoyed, and the owl in question continued to give him a scathing look that suggested he was something of an imbecile. “What?!” he finally yelled.

The bird clacked her beak rapidly a few times and looked at him expectantly.

“Oh,” Draco said. “You want food. Well, I suppose that’s understandable.”

He lifted the lid of his trunk and found a container of owl treats that had been packed by one of the House-elves who had apparently known his parents were planning to give him an owl. He dug one out and flicked it in the white owl’s direction, and she caught it skillfully in her beak.

“Now… go?” he said hopefully.

The white owl spread her wings and made one loop of the room, managing to ruffle Draco’s hair with a wing on her way, and swooped out the window.

“About time,” Draco said, putting his hair to rights. “I doubt there’s anything left to eat.”

Draco walked back through the Slytherin common room, out the door, and up the stairs that led to the Great Hall. He could already smell the glorious aroma of hot beef stew and fresh bread, but when he entered the gigantic room, it was nearly as empty as his stomach. Three-quarters of the students had already eaten and left, and there really wasn’t much food remaining in the tureens on the tables. Almost panicking at the thought of having to skip another meal (Malfoys do not faint unless they are female and there’s a handsome Pure-blood prince about), he ran towards the Slytherin table as quickly as his stiffened leg would carry him. He grabbed one of the few remaining bowls, scraped the soup ladle to the very bottom of the tureen, and managed to cadge a good portion of broth, but not much in the way of beef or potatoes. Snorting indignantly, he took a roll from a basket and sat down. Thankfully there was a clean spoon at his spot, and he began, politely and with great refinement, shoveling soup into his mouth. 

“Cold,” he said miserably, but cold or not, it was still food, and he’d take it.

“How’s the leg?” asked a very large boy across from him. At a glance, Draco knew he wasn’t a first year.

“Better,” Draco said tersely. “How did you know about it?”

The boy grinned in a rather unpleasant manner and said, “That story’s all over Slytherin now: Draco Malfoy, bitten to a bloody pulp by a crazed geranium. Quite the star, you are.”

Draco gritted his teeth at the other boy.

“And who, precisely, are you?” he asked, making each word sound like a threat on his life.

“Marcus Flint, Quidditch team captain,” he returned, and the smile looked more like a dog baring its fangs than anything remotely human. 

“Yeah,” Draco said, deciding that he had only two choices, and he was not taking the road of backing down and blending into the woodwork, “well, you should watch your tone with your betters, Flint. My father could buy and sell your family for less than he pays for morning porridge, and if you keep up with running your mouth, you might find you’ve burned too many bridges to go back.”

Flint glared at him menacingly, but Draco took note that his words had hit their mark as the older, larger boy seemed to shrink a bit in his seat with uncertainty.

“No harm meant,” Flint said, and though his voice was apologetic, his eyes were still snapping angrily. “Just a funny story.”

Draco did not deign to answer but continued downing the ice cold stew, occasionally dipping torn off chunks of his roll into it and chewing them with smooth contempt. In a few minutes, Flint simply got up and went away, leaving Draco the master of the Slytherin table. Granted, the table was now empty except for him, but an empty victorious battlefield was still a victory.

Leaving the dirty bowl on the table, he checked the clock hanging in the Great Hall. It was just 2:30. He had half an hour to get ready for tea with his dear godfather. What a joy that promised to be. Since Professor Snape’s office was in the dungeons (what was it with this school and sticking Slytherins in dark, dank, fetid holes in the ground?), Draco had a sizable walk with his somewhat imperfect leg. His jaw set in grim determination, Draco set off for the torturous experience of tea, hoping against hope that at least there would be decent biscuits. Somehow, though, he doubted it.


	11. Tea and Bitter Biscuits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco takes tea with his godfather… in a damp dungeon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some information double-checked through the Harry Potter Lexicon.

It took Draco the better part of half an hour to find his godfather’s office. Just after he had reached the dungeon level, Peeves the poltergeist had bounced out of one of the empty classrooms. Through the door, Draco was able to see every wall was covered in trails of putrid green sludge. He almost had to admire what a first-rate job Peeves had done in utterly destroying the classroom.

“Ooo, one of the ickle Firsties!” Peeves cackled loudly, zooming back and forth in front of Draco, ricocheting from one wall to the other down the corridor while propelling himself backwards so he was face to face with him. “Whatcha doing here, Blondie? Do you have permission to be roaming about without your mummy?”

Draco decided silence was probably the best response.

“Kitty-cat got your tonguey-wongy?” he asked, blowing a loud raspberry. “Why you limping like that? Something nasty bite you? Oooo, are you the Slytherin stupid who went and got bit by a pansy?”

Great, Draco thought. Just what he needed: a poltergeist who knew he’d been attacked by a glorified weed.

“Stop your gob,” Draco said through gritted teeth.

“But your battle should be told in epic song!” Peeves said, grinning broadly before breaking into a very loud, very off-key song.

_“Oh stupid wittle boy  
You should not annoy  
The flowers that live here at Hogwarts!  
A violet kicked your bum  
Because you’re so dumb,  
At least that’s what the professor reports!  
Now you limp like a berk  
‘Cause a flower went berserk  
But I don’t think that you’ve learned your lesson.  
I give it just a week  
Until you’re just a freak,  
And you work in a delicatessen!”_

“That doesn’t even make sense!” Draco yelled in frustration.

“Well, you try rhyming the word lesson,” Peeves said, nodding sagely. “Did my best, I did, and do I get a thank you? Nooo, not a single kind word for old Peevesy.”

“Bugger off,” he said, getting truly annoyed now.

“No,” the poltergeist said as he floated merrily in front of Draco. “Bored. Nowhere to go. Nothing to do.”

“Why don’t you go annoy someone else for a while then?” Draco said.

“Like who?”

“I don’t care! Go… bother the house-elves or something. There must be hundreds in this place,” Draco said. He was fighting the urge to pummel the thing, but he knew from experience that a poltergeist didn’t have any physical body. There had been one for a brief while at the Malfoy estate, but then…

“Why you grinning like that?” Peeves asked, his tone suspicious.

“Oh, nothing,” Draco said nonchalantly. “I just remembered something.”

“What?” Peeves asked, and his face looked just a little concerned.

“Nothing much,” Draco said with a feigned shrug. “Just that poltergeists aren’t terribly fond of certain sounds. Isn’t that so?”

Peeves’s eyes shifted nervously from side to side.

“For example...,” Draco said, pausing for effect, “they don’t like, oh, say, lyres? Especially silver ones? Particularly when someone plays a glissando three times?”

Peeves’s eyes opened comically wide.

“How do you know that?” he asked, a tremble in his voice.

“My family had to get rid of one of your kind a few years ago,” Draco said. “Now, unless you want me to tell every single person at Hogwarts exactly how to banish you from here for good, you’re going to keep mum about my little run in with the fanged geranium, right?”

Peeves looked sulky but nodded.

“And you’re not going to give me any trouble, right?” Draco said, starting to smile in earnest.

“No… sir,” Peeves responded almost against his will.

“And let’s say I need you to do a little something for me sometime in the future, you’d be willing and pleased to do that, wouldn’t you?” Draco said, giving the poltergeist a grin that he knew was just a shade too wide.

“Peeves would be honored to do so,” he grumbled.

“Fine. My first request is for you to go bother someone else, then,” Draco said. “Try a Gryffindor. Not one of the girls, though,” he added quickly, remembering Hermione. “The boys. Go after them.”

Peeves bowed and sped off down the corridor. Granted, just before he was out of earshot, Draco heard him blow a particularly loud raspberry back in his general direction, but he didn’t mind. He had just managed to get a very good spy and all around servant for himself via blackmail. Father would be so proud.

Two more twisting passages later Draco found himself outside a large wooden door labelled “Professor Snape.” He sighed heavily, and steeling himself, knocked on the door loudly.

“Enter,” said a familiar syrupy voice.

“Enter,” Draco mockingly mouthed to himself before he turned the knob and went in.

His godfather sat at his desk, looking directly and unnervingly at the opened door. He rose, beckoned Draco to one of two chairs sitting by a very small fire, and shut the door with a resounding clang behind them.

“It is a pleasure to see you, godson,” Snape said, though his voice still held its perpetually bored tone. “I congratulate you once again on your placement in my house.”

“Thank you, godfather,” Draco said, looking curiously around the office.

The walls had a great many glass jars, each one with something more disgusting floating in it than the previous one. Absolutely everything was coated in dust except for the books, several shelves of them, most of them with cracked bindings that looked centuries old. They were piled high and deep on the desk, stacked on the floor in neat piles, and Snape actually needed to move two of them from the remaining chair before he could sit down. The bare stone walls had no pictures, no photographs, not a single ornament at all. In fact, the entire room was somehow devoid of personality, almost deliberately so. Draco couldn’t help feeling rather unnerved by it.

“Have you had tea yet?” Snape asked him as he waved his wand in a complex pattern and a small tea table appeared between them, complete with a piping hot, though non-descript, pot of tea and a plate of biscuits. Those caught Draco’s attention immediately.

“No, sir,” Draco responded eagerly.

“Excellent,” Snape said, and for a moment he almost seemed pleased, nearly human. “Do you take sugar?”

“Two lumps,” Draco said, watching as his godfather prepared a cup for him, then one for himself, that one lacking sugar.

“You may help yourself to the biscuits,” Snape said, gesturing to the plate, and Draco didn’t need a second invitation to take two of them. They turned out to be not wonderful, but far from the worst thing he’d eaten that day, and before he knew it Draco had polished off a much larger number than he knew was polite. Snape didn’t take any but sat perfectly still across from him, holding his cup and saucer and eyeing his godson intensely.

“So,” Draco said, feeling awkward. “Ehm… how’ve you been?”

“Well enough,” Snape replied, placing the untouched cup of tea back on the tray, then steepling his fingers just beneath is chin. Snape looked at him intently, and Draco experienced the curious sensation that he was being examined, not merely from the outside but the inside as well. It was unpleasant, and he fought not to squirm in response. Snape nodded once, and a rather satisfied look came over the potion master’s face, but it died quickly. “How do you find Slytherin?”

“It’s alright, I suppose,” Draco said with a shrug. “I haven’t really had the time to speak with the others much yet.”

“I would suggest, Draco,” Snape said slowly and deliberately, “that you choose to be very careful about what you say and to whom. Have you taken time to inspect the mantle above the common room fireplace yet?”

“No,” Draco said, surprised and bemused by the strange question.

“You may wish to do that this evening. The motto written there will give you all the advice you could wish for in life,” Snape said, lifting the teacup to his mouth again. “Your mother has written to me regarding your post from this morning.”

“She has?” Draco said, startled that she hadn’t contacted him herself. “Is she sending taffy?”

Snape gave a long-suffering sigh that sounded rather dangerous.

“I believe she said something to that effect,” he said dismissively. “However, you and I have much more important matters to discuss than sweets, specifically the other issue you raised in your letter.”

Draco thought wildly for a moment about suggesting someone was going to do something about how damp the Slytherin accommodations were, but decided he really didn’t want to try his godfather’s patience any further. 

“You mean about the missing Mudbloods, godfather?” Draco said, and he was met with a nod.

Snape stared into the fireplace for a long minute in perfect silence, and Draco watched the flames do strange things to his godfather’s eyes. He had the sense that Snape was remembering something from very long ago, and it increased the perpetually bitter expression on his face.

“There are, of course, Mudbloods galore at Hogwarts,” Snape finally said, his eyes never leaving the flames, and even the word “Mudbloods” seemed distasteful to him. “They are everywhere. You simply have not seen them.”

“So they’re, what, invisible then?” Draco asked. 

“In a way,” Snape said, finally shifting his gaze towards Draco. “They’re hiding in plain sight. Despite the stories you’ve always been told, the endless parade of witticisms and picturesque descriptions regarding the semi-animal characteristics, both physical and mental, of Mudbloods, you need to understand that those were… exaggerations.”

Draco was stunned by this revelation.

“Just how exaggerated are they? Do they walk on all fours? Use broken twigs for wands?” Draco asked, feeling deeply betrayed.

“No,” Snape said, and there was a visible tightness in the lines of his mouth. “None of those is literally true. Visually, it is practically impossible to tell a Mudblood from a pure-blood, even if one is standing next to you.”

“You’re telling me some of the students I was Sorted with yesterday are Mudbloods?” Draco asked, rather horrified.

“Yes,” Snape said.

“They just parade around, pretending to be like the rest of us, when they know they aren’t our equals at all?” Draco said, his voice rising in indignation.

“Actually, many of them believe they actually are our equals,” Snape said, and his gaze was back on the fire again. “And many wizards, including the current Headmaster, agree with that supposition.”

“But… that’s wrong, isn’t it?” Draco said, and there was a note of desperation in his voice. “They aren’t. They can’t be. Father and Mother have always told me…”

“What they have told you is entirely correct for a boy of your purity of background,” Snape interrupted smoothly. “The less you have to do with Mudbloods, the better it will go for you.”

His godfather looked away from the flames and back at Draco, and his eyes seemed to crackle with some suppressed anger.

“They can destroy you. Do not for one moment believe Mudbloods are incapable of that. They are more dangerous than you can possibly realize. Stay as far from them as you can, Draco, if you wish to lead a happy life.”

Draco stared at him, his mouth a bit slack as he tried to absorb the information that Snape was telling him, but it still wouldn’t quite fit with his view of the world. And that phrase, “They can destroy you…” It reminded him too much of that fevered dream of two nights ago. He shivered instinctively.

“I believe our tea is finished,” Snape said, rising abruptly. “Again, you have my sincere hopes for a celebrated career at Hogwarts. Your mother will be sending taffy and a copy of a wizarding guide to pure-blood families by tomorrow’s post. I shall see you in the last class of the week. Until then…”

Draco rose as he realized his godfather had already opened the door back to the corridor.

“Yes, until then,” he said, then hobbled quickly back through the door and off towards the Slytherin common room, his mind swimming with thoughts and contradictions. It gave him an unpleasant lurching sensation in his stomach, as though a rug had been pulled from under him. Finally, he dealt with it as he handled all things that bothered him: he chose to ignore it until it went away. He felt better straight off.

After he gave the password and was admitted into the common room, he sat in one of the tall chairs by the fireplace. The room was otherwise deserted, the others having gone down to dinner, but with a belly full of Snape’s stale biscuits Draco wasn’t at all hungry. Remembering what Snape had said about the mantelpiece, Draco glanced up at the single monolith that made the wide mantle. It was dimly lit, but by the flickering light of the common room fire he could still see the three words that were carved deeply into the stone: “Trust no one.”

“Well, that’s something to dwell on,” Draco said with a shudder before going to the first years’ dormitory, hoping one of the other students had taken decent notes on the first day’s lecture.


	12. Comparing Notes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco returns from the hospital wing and discontentedly heads towards the owlery to write Hermione about the lousy first day he’s had. Things don’t go exactly as he planned, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author Note: Some information double-checked through the Harry Potter Lexicon.

It wasn’t long before the other Slytherin boys started filtering back into the dormitory. Draco noted that both Nott and Zabini were carrying a fair few books as well as several parchment rolls filled with notes. Crabbe and Goyle, on the other hand, were completely unfettered by anything so dull as books or notes. Knowing that the answer wouldn’t be anything particularly enlightening, Draco took a deep breath and attempted the impossible.

“So… what did we cover in Herbology today?” he asked the pair.

“Huh?” Goyle said, and Crabbe looked around slowly.

“Herbology,” Draco said slowly. “What did we do?”

“Oh,” Crabbe said. “Yeah, uh, Sprout talked about dirt, I think.”

“Dirt,” Draco said, his face screwed up into a distasteful grimace. “Anything specific about… dirt?”

“I think it’s important or something,” Goyle said. “Oh, and we’re supposed to write an essay on it.”

“On… dirt,” Draco said slowly. “I don’t suppose Sprout provided more details than that?”

“Don’t know,” Crabbe said, throwing himself down on his bed. “I think she said something else, but I wasn’t really paying attention to her.”

“I can’t say I blame you,” Draco said. “Dirt, of all things.”

“Well, after all, it is Herbology,” Nott said. “What would you expect the topic to be?”

“Something useful,” Draco countered. “I’m starting to wonder about this place. So far today, I’ve been bored silly by facts about prehistoric wizards who’ve been dead for millenia, visited the hospital wing—where I was treated appallingly, by the way—and missed a lecture on dirt.”

“You forgot getting bit by a flower,” Goyle added helpfully only to be the recipient of one of Draco’s iciest looks.

Zabini nodded thoughtfully.

“I admit,” he said, sprawling gracefully across his bed, “I too had rather higher expectations for the first day. Still, I suppose we shouldn’t expect to be conjuring gold out of thin air all at once.”

Draco sighed. Dirt. Of all the stupid things. He couldn’t help wondering if the Gryffindors had faired better with their classes today. Perhaps dropping Hermione a note was in order. Carefully, he tested his leg and found that it was much better than he had expected it to be. He might, possibly, have been too hasty in his dismissal of Madame Pompadore or whatever her name was in the hospital wing. Granted, she could have been more far more polite, but he had to admit as he stared down at his now practically healed leg, the woman knew her cures.

As Crabbe and Goyle launched into a discussion of whether dung bombs or trick wands were more fun and Zabini and Crabbe seemed intent on starting their homework, Draco slipped unnoticed from the room, sped through the nearly empty common room, and began walking down the twisting corridors and stairways that led to the owlery. 

He congratulated himself on getting lost only twice when he reached the gloomy, circular room at the top of the second tallest castle tower. It wasn’t yet dark, but the sun was getting lower in the September sky, and the owls were beginning to stir from their daily sleep, sensing night was coming. It really was rather a pretty view, he thought to himself as he looked at the scenery in all directions. The crisp air carried a hint of autumn in it, and the lake was glittering in the last of the sunlight while the deep greens of the Forbidden Forest were nearly blue in the depths of the darkest shadows. The hills that encircled the school looked rugged and wild, filled with a sense of quiet history that old Binns couldn’t possibly have understood. He could almost overlook the excessive amount of owl dung on the floor.

Draco began to search for his Persephone among all the other owls. While normally he would simply have bellowed her name loudly, he didn’t think it would be wise to abruptly wake up a few hundred owls, all of whom would probably be grumpy, and all of whom, he noted, possessed very sharp beaks and intimidating claws. The sheer number of birds was a little staggering, but he finally caught sight of his own eagle owl curled up by one of the arches and beginning to stretch lazily.

“There you are,” he said, smiling at her. “Feel up to delivering something before you set off for the night?”

Persephone’s eyes opened wider, and she gave a quiet hoot of assent.

“Good,” he said, then realized the obvious. He had completely forgotten parchment, quill, and ink. 

“Oh, for Circe’s sake!” he yelled, causing several late sleeping owls to ruffle their feathers indignantly. “How am I supposed to write Hermione now!”

“Well,” said an amused voice behind him, “you could try just turning round and talking to her instead. That is if the owls don’t peck your eyes out first for waking them.”

He winced. Great. Now he looked like a prat. How charming. But her teasing laugh seemed warm and not unkind, and he turned to face her with a sheepish grin.

“I got your owl this morning,” Hermione said, taking a seat on a window ledge that somehow wasn’t completely coverd in owl droppings. “How was tea with your godfather?”

The words “morbid,” “cynical,” and “deeply uncomfortable” were dancing on the tip of Draco’s tongue, but he thought it was better not to tell tales out of school… or rather in school, as the case might be.

“About as I expected,” he said quite truthfully, “which is more than I can say for the first day.”

Hermione’s face fell in disappointment.

“Really?” she said. “I was hoping you’d enjoyed your classes. What happened?”

Without quite realizing he had done it, he sat down next to her on the window sill and was immediately pouring out the story of the Fanged Geranium, which she listened to with wide eyes and gasps in all the appropriate places. He didn’t know why he felt the urge to actually talk about it with her rather than cover it up, and he chose not to look at his motives too carefully. 

Granted, Draco may have taken a few small liberties with the scene. For example, on later recollection he supposed the flower hadn’t been quite twenty feet tall or possessed a head the size of a wild boar or fangs as long as his leg and clogged with the flesh of previous victims, including a human skull. Still, after the day he’d had, he thought he was entitled to a little artistic license.

“That’s awful!” she cried, her hand to her mouth. “Will you be okay?”

“Should be,” Draco said, moving his leg back and forth a bit. “Whatever else might be going on, the healer in the hospital wing is at least adequate, which is more than I can say for Binns.”

“Yes,” Hermione said, “I’ve already heard rumors about him. I take it he’s not exactly a great deal of fun.”

“After an hour in that class, I found myself wishing I was dead, too,” Draco said, heaving a sigh.

“Too?” she asked.

“Yeah, Binns is a ghost. That’s the only exciting thing about him,” Draco said. “Yeesh, who’d stay in this place after they were dead, for pity’s sake?”

“I was wondering that myself,” Hermione said. “Sir Nicholas is rather nicer than I was expecting, really, and the Fat Friar and the Grey Lady seem decent sorts, but the Bloody Baron… I don’t know how you sleep at night with him hanging about! I want to look up more information on the castle ghosts. You haven’t happened to read Hogwarts: A History, have you?”

“No,” Draco said.

“Oh, I’ll have to loan it to you. It’s really quite interesting, well, if you’re interested at all in history and the like,” Hermione said.

“Anything’s got to be less boring than Binns,” Draco said, and she laughed again.

“So what did you have today, then? Any professors I’ll need a wakefulness potion for?” he asked.

“Professor McGonagall is really fascinating. Did you know she can turn herself into a cat?” she said enthusiastically.

“Really? She’s an animagus?” Draco sniffed in a vaguely impressed way. That was far more than he’d expected from someone who headed Gryffindor. 

“Yes. We’re still working on small things now, nothing anywhere near as elaborate, but it promises to be a really wonderful experience,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll like her.”

“Yeah,” he said uncertainly. “Maybe. Say, if you were going to be an animagus, what animal would you pick to become?”

“I don’t know. From what I’ve read on the subject, it’s more that a witch or wizard’s personality dictates what form they’ll take,” she said.

“Yeah, but if you could pick?” he pressed.

“Hmm,” she said, looking out over the grounds. “I know it would be more sensible to pick something that could fly, but I’m not overly fond of heights, and while being a water animal would be useful sometimes, I don’t think that would come in handy very often.”

It intrigued him, the way she was reasoning everything out rather than simply blurting out a response. This was definitely a girl who thought things through thoroughly.

“I think… I think I’d like to be a squirrel,” she finally said.

“A squirrel?” he said, stunned. “Why on earth would you pick one of those rats with fluffy tails?”

“Well, they can move about from one place to another really fast, and it would be easy to blend in to the background if I didn’t want to be noticed. Also, well, they always seem so happy. It’s not often you see a depressed-looking squirrel, is it?” she said.

“I suppose not,” he said, grinning. “As for me, I’d be a horse, a great black charger.”

Hermione nodded her approval, saying “Not terribly good for camoflage, I suppose, but still, it would be wonderful to run as fast as you’d want, feel powerful.”

“That’s what it’s really all about, isn’t it? Power and who has it,” Draco said. He was rather surprised by her frown.

“I think there’s some things more important than that, though,” Hermione said.

“Like what?” he said with a laugh, figuring she must be joking. In the Malfoy house at any rate, nothing trumped power.

“Friendship,” she said simply.

“Friendship?” he said, then turned out to the darkened grounds again as a cloud of owls swooped overhead. “I suppose it’s useful, at any rate.”

“What an odd thing to say,” she said. “Useful?”

“Sure. Friends of the right sort can move a person along, make him more important, a real force to be reckoned with. People are stronger in a pack than alone, after all.”

“I guess I see your point,” she said, but the frown still marred her features. “People definitely do have more strength together.”

“In any case, you’ve got one Slytherin friend on your side,” he said magnaimously.

“And you’ve got a Gryffindor as well,” she said, smiling, and though Draco still couldn’t really find an advantage in having a Gryffindor of all things in his social circle, he found himself smiling as well. “We’d really better get back to the dormitories before the sun’s through setting or we’ll be in such trouble.”

“Probably right about that. I’d rather not get detention if I can avoid it. I’ve heard they do some really nasty things,” he said as they stood and began making their way around the late sleepers and to the door.

“I’ve heard the same, and of course I don’t want to lose my house any points,” she said seriously. “How many did you earn for Slytherin today?”

Draco paused as they descended the spiral staircase that led from the owlery. He’d slept through one class and been bitten in the other, so the grand total was a goose egg.

“Ehm, didn’t really keep count,” he said with a shrug. “It seems so vain.”

“Yes, you’re probably right,” she said in an embarrassed voice. “I mean, heh, who keeps track of that sort of thing anyway?”

“Good night, Hermione,” he said with a graceful bow at the foot of the stairs. “I guess I’ll see you in Potions, then.”

“Good night, Draco,” she said with a wave as she ran off in the direction of what he assumed must be Gryffindor Tower.

He was practically back in the Slytherin common room again before he realized he was still smiling contentedly. Perhaps that was the benefit of having a Gryffindor as a friend, he thought. It might not be the sort of usefulness his parents would have approved of, but at the moment it seemed more than important enough to justify looking forward to Potions with enthusiasm.

At that moment, a package from home was on its way. It would arrive the next day, and its contents would begin a chain of events that would make happiness and contentment very rare things in Draco’s life.


	13. Mail Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco receives a package from home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some information double-checked through the Harry Potter Lexicon.

The next morning, Draco woke early. He wasn’t really sure what had caused him to roll over and know that he wouldn’t be going back to sleep even if the light outside the charmed window was very dim. He lay in bed a long while, though, going over his schedule for the day once more: Transfiguration, lunch break, Charms, dinner, and finally Astronomy. He was moderately hopeful about his professors today, and when he noticed that his leg looked perfectly normal this morning, he was practically cheerful.

Draco rose and dressed, then went down to the Great Hall for breakfast before his roommates began to stir. After yesterday’s fiasco, he was determined to get a decent meal at least once. Seated at the Slytherin table was a handful of older students, most of them looking decidedly groggy and grumpy. Draco decided to take a seat relatively far from them, then waited for breakfast to arrive.

When the platters of hot toast slathered in butter and strawberry jam appeared, he almost whooped aloud. Eggs followed along with links of sausage still sizzling from the pan. It is possible that Draco Malfoy, the heir to the Malfoy fortune and possessed of the very purest of wizarding blood, may have scarfed down his food in a somewhat wild fashion. It’s even possible that a bit of butter may have found its way into his sleek blond hair. In fact, the distinct possibility exists that a certain Master Malfoy actually cleaned an entire platter of sausages meant to serve four people all on his own. Regardless, he felt delightfully full when he was finished and still had plenty of time before his first class.

Crabbe and Goyle entered the Great Hall a few minutes after Draco had polished off his breakfast, and when he noticed just how hungry they looked, he was very happy that he’d managed to eat first. 

“Morning,” he said, sipping at a glass of water since he couldn’t abide pumpkin juice.

“Mrghf,” Crabbe attempted as he sat down, which was still better than Goyle managed to do. The other boy had actually fallen asleep again over the table.

Well, so much for breakfast table conversation, Draco thought. Carefully, he checked his teeth in the reflection of his knife (it wouldn’t do for a Malfoy to appear with sausage wedged between his teeth), and behind him he caught sight of a wild nest of brown curls sitting at the Gryffindor table. He turned around, but as Hermione was seated facing away from him, he couldn’t catch her eye. Unobserved, he stared at the other table and its strange assortment of students, a rather unusually large number of them sporting the red hair his father had taught him to associate with the Weasley clan. Pure-bloods, granted, but exceedingly poor and apparently rather dim since they seemed to be blood traitors on top of everything else. Still…

A thought crept into Draco’s mind. Was it possible the Sorting Hat chose what house a student was in based on money? Draco considered for a moment. He knew his family was wealthy, and judging by Pansy’s emerald encrusted shoes and some of the extremely elegant robes Blaise had, so were they. Maybe Hermione had wound up in Gryffindor not because she lacked the suitable background, temperament, and intelligence of Slytherin, but because her parents were poor? This thought bothered him. Really, the girl shouldn’t be penalized because her parents were layabouts, and he simply didn’t see in her the stupidity and rudeness one associated with Gryffindors and their class. He supposed his parents would have been displeased if he remained friends with a girl who was below their level of richness (and, on second thought, he did think her robes might possibly have been bought used), but there were plenty of pure-bloods who had amassed fortunes on their own. Maybe she would turn out fine in the end.

Still, this brought up a thought. Hadn’t Hermione said on the train that her birthday was in September? For some reason, the idea that her more than likely impoverished parents might not be able to send her a present made him feel… the word uncomfortable seemed to fit. Draco didn’t like feeling uncomfortable, so he thought he’d better do something about it. 

As he was considering what, the usual morning mail call of owls swooped into the hall, and Draco immediately picked out Persephone in the throng. She landed gracefully on his arm, and he gave her a bit of left over bacon that she swallowed with solemn dignity. Carefully, he untied the rather large package that was attached to her leg, and he noticed she shook it stiffly.

“You all right, there?” he asked her, stroking the skin on her leg. 

She hooted softly as though in reassurance, but moved her leg again tenderly, and he lifted the box. It really was rather heavy, especially for a trip all the way from Malfoy Manor. He wondered that his mother hadn’t noticed it, but he supposed she was busy with some of her social calendar.

“If you’ve got to do a delivery that far again,” Draco said, rubbing her head gently, “make sure another owl comes with you. There’s a white one in the Owlery who seems decent.”

He gave her another scrap of bacon and then opened the package as she chewed thoughtfully. Inside he found a letter, a good-sized box of Dobby’s taffy, and a book that looked deadly dull before he even opened the cover. 

“ _Leaves on the Tree of Perfection: A Wizarding Genealogy_ ,” he read, then grimaced. “I’m sure this will be fascinating.”

“What have you got, Draco?” Goyle asked, awake again after a good dose of eggs and undoubtedly scenting the taffy. 

“Package from home,” he said, purposely keeping his meaning vague. 

Carefully, he unrolled the parchment of his mother’s letter and read the familiar, sloping handwriting.

_Dearest Draco,_

_Your word has reached me of your Sorting into Slytherin. Your father and I are both very pleased._

Draco beamed. Praise from his parents was always a good thing, and there wasn’t always a lot of it to be found.

_However, I hope your godfather has adequately corrected your notions regarding Pure-blood status and its characteristics as well as those of Mudbloods and their ilk. These enemies are hovering near to you even as you read this, and you do not want their taint to contaminate you. It is your duty as a Pure-blood to expose their deficiencies, deriding them whenever the opportunity presents itself, but you may choose simply to hold yourself aloof from the dreadful creatures if you do not want to engage in open warfare with them._

As Draco read these words, a flush of color came into his cheeks. His mother certainly wasn’t calling him a coward, was she? Of course he’d humiliate Mudbloods if that’s what his parents wanted! He still didn’t quite understand how they were able to lie about their parentage so bold-facedly and pretend they were as good as everyone else, but if he caught one of them in it, he would be sure to make his or her (or perhaps he should use “its”?) life as miserable as possible.

_I have given you an excellent book on the genealogy of all Pure-blood branches in the United Kingdom. Should you encounter wizards from abroad, there are other directories that can assist you in finding out their parentage, but I think this book will give you all the information you need to look up information on your various classmates and reveal their level of purity. The Malfoys, of course, are mentioned prominently, as are my family, the Blacks._

Draco looked at the book with a little more interest now, but he still didn’t hold out much hope for its plot. Graphic, descriptive broomstick chases and dragon fights really didn’t seem all that likely in the history of the Malfoys or the Blacks.

_Do well, surpass your peers, and remember to keep the Malfoy honor above reproach, my son._

_Mother_

_P.S. The taffy can be a useful tool in winning over the rest of the Slytherins. Be certain to pass it around to all the important people in an effort at friendship._

Draco opened the box of taffy, each of the wrappers a different pastel color, and sighed longingly. Really, he’d love to down the whole box himself, but Mother’s advice wasn’t meant to be ignored.

“Here, Goyle,” he said, handing him a couple pieces. “One of our House-elves makes this. It’s quite good.”

His face lit up at once, and Draco felt a strange surge of pride. He gave Crabbe some as well, then, deliberating carefully, passed one to Blaise, who looked at it curiously, but unwrapped it with a polite, “Thank you.”

“Nott, you want some?” Draco asked, holding the box in his direction.

“I’m not fond of sweets,” Theodore said, regarding him steadily. “Thanks just the same.”

“Whatever,” Draco said, feeling rather insulted.

Just then Pansy caught his eye from her seat at the end of the table, and he realized he really should offer her some. She waved at him, giving him that practiced smile again, and he walked down to her.

“Care for a sweet?” he asked her.

“Oooh, yes!” she said, grabbing two pieces. “You’re going to fatten me up at this rate, Draco! What’s that?” she asked, pointing to the book.

“Oh, wizarding genealogy book,” he said off-handedly. “The best families are all listed. Mother sent it to me.”

With a surprisingly loud squeal, she grabbed the book out of his hands and immediately began flipping pages towards the section that began with P.

“I do so love seeing my name in print,” she said. “Oh, look, there’s a lovely, long section on the Parkinsons right here, see?”

There was indeed an entire chapter dedicated to the illustrious Parkinson family, and though Draco skimmed the first paragraph a little to see whether he was wrong and the book was more interesting than it looked, sadly, all it did was prove him right. It was deeply boring.

“This is fascinating!” she said again. “I normally loathe books—horrid, dusty things that make people near-sighted, you know—but I’d love to get my hands on this for a day or two.”

Draco looked uncertain. It had seemed like his mother had wanted him to study it right away.

“Please?” she asked, and her eyelashes fluttered sweetly as she smiled up at him.

“Well, all right,” he agreed, figuring it was best to give his betrothed whatever she wanted at this point.

Pansy threw her arms around him in a quick hug, then backed off in some embarrassment, sitting down once more and going over the text with her friend Daphne.

“I’ll, ehm, need it back, though,” he said uncertainly, a little overwhelmed.

She nodded, not quite meeting his eyes and blushing a bit. Draco walked back down the table to his seat, and Crabbe and Goyle smiled at him as though they’d figured out some great secret.

“Pansy’s pretty,” Goyle said, “even if she is a stupid girl.”

“Don’t call her stupid,” Draco snapped, feeling irritable.

Draco couldn’t help feeling that Goyle had very little room to insult anyone else about intelligence to begin with. Cautiously, he looked down the table towards Pansy and Daphne again. The two girls were giggling madly and pointing to something in the book. Goyle had been right about one thing though; Pansy was decidedly pretty. Still, so was his broomstick, and he didn’t really feel like marrying it, but he wasn’t about to tolerate anyone, even another Pure-blood, insulting a Pure-blood young lady in his presence, regardless of whether it was Pansy or Hermione or Daphne or even that rather frightening Millicent. It simply wasn’t good manners. As he watched Goyle wipe his nose on his sleeve, Draco sighed. He was going to have to help this one and Crabbe rather a lot.

The din of breakfast was beginning to break up as students and staff began drifting out of the Great Hall and off to their classes. Draco patted his full stomach. Really, whoever was in charge of the House-elves was doing a marvelous job of getting them to cook very well indeed… when he could get hold of it. He gathered his books and set off for Transfiguration, deeply intrigued by the description Hermione had given him of McGonagall. He glanced once more around the Great Hall to see if he could catch sight of her before she left the Gryffindor table, but he just caught a glimpse of her exiting through the door a good thirty feet in front of him. Even so, he smiled, though he didn’t stop to consider why.


	14. Diverging Paths

Draco ran through the Slytherin common room and into the dormitory, quickly opening his trunk and stowing away his books before heading to lunch. There was really no rush, but Draco was trying to outrun the disturbing thoughts that were lurking in his mind.

Professor McGonagall was, in a word, fascinating. Draco had been around wizards his entire life, and she had performed highly advanced, rare magic with an almost graceful nonchalance that was very nearly worthy of a Malfoy. This was what he had expected of Hogwarts: a professor with amazing skills and complete professionalism. 

What he hadn’t been expecting was for the first really good professor he came across to be a Gryffindor. As he walked a bit too briskly towards the Great Hall, he started to mull things over, and it was an uncomfortable feeling. First the exaggeration about Mudbloods when the truth was they really didn’t look like animals or act like wild hooligans. Then the realization that Pure-bloods of good standing could wind up in houses other than Slytherin and even be happy about it. Now, on top of everything else, a Gryffindor of all things was easily one of the most competent and powerful professors in the school. 

For one brief, insane moment, Draco wondered if it was possible his parents might have gotten some things, well, not wrong, of course, but maybe twisted somehow. Draco chose to put the sudden dropping of his stomach down to being hungry, along with the oddly light-headed feeling. If only he could just get that book back from Pansy so he could learn who his enemies were before he did something really stupid. 

Caught up in his own thoughts, he nearly collided with Hermione, who was coming from the direction of the library.

“Sorry,” he said, bending to pick up the books he’d knocked out of her hands. “My brain’s off somewhere else.”

“Thank you,” she said, tucking an absolutely terrifyingly large tome with a title longer than his arm back into her bookbag. “Madam Pince would go into fits if she saw this on the ground. It’s really old, and she only let me take it out after practically swearing me to defend it with my life. I love books, but she’s kind of scary.”

“I had McGonagall today,” Draco said, pausing uncomfortably before he went on. “You’re right. She’s really good.”

Hermione beamed at him.

“Yes, she is. I think I’m going to learn a lot from her,” Hermione said. 

“It’s strange, liking a Gryffindor professor,” Draco said. “We’re not really supposed to do that.”

“Ridiculous, isn’t it?” she said, frowning. “I understand the idea of building morale through healthy competition, but it just feels so completely, I don’t know, barbaric somehow, separating everyone into groups. Besides, I-I’m starting to feel like I’m in the wrong house.”

This time it was Draco who smiled. He’d known it. He’d known the Sorting Hat had made a mistake. After all, it was just some flea-bitten old lump of felt that was so filthy that if it were ever cleaned there’d be nothing left of it but moldy lint. It was only logical it would malfunction after a while. Maybe he could petition his father to have her re-Sorted into the proper place, which naturally would be Slytherin.

“Why do you think that?” Draco asked.

“Oh, it’s just that, well,” Hermione said, biting her lip as she searched for the words, “I get the feeling the other Gryffindors think I’m rather, I don’t know, odd, maybe?”

“Odd?” Draco said, honestly confused.

“It seems like all the things I care about, they don’t very much, and the things that seem important to them aren’t to me,” she blurted out as though she’d been thinking about this for a while. “Lavender and Parvati, the other two Gryffindor girls, the only things they ever talk about are clothes and beauty magazines and who isn’t wearing the right kind of shoes with their robes. They’re sort of catty, really. And the boys seem worse if anything. They’re so… juvenile, I guess is the word. No one pays any attention to their studies it seems, and just because I do, I’m some sort of a freak or a goody-goody or something.”

He blinked. She really did seem on the cusp of breaking down entirely, tears starting to pop into her eyes, and that made him deeply uncomfortable. Awkwardly, he patted her shoulder.

“They’re fools, then,” he said finally. “We’re supposed to be learning stuff! What are they going to do, fail Hogwarts with a load of T’s on their exams because it’s not fashionable to study?”

“The Sorting Hat gave me the option to be in Ravenclaw,” Hermione said miserably, “but I think I might have done the wrong thing when I said no.”

“Ravenclaw?” Draco said, staring at her as his visions of her in green and silver evaporated. “Seriously?”

“Yes, but, oh, it was probably stupid of me, but it just seemed so stereotypical for me to be put in the house with all the brainy people. I mean, I’m smart, but there are other bits to who I am other than that, and I figured I could learn just as well in any house but that Gryffindor might expand my horizons or something,” she said.

Draco couldn’t for the life of him figure out what kind of horizons a Gryffindor had that were any good at all. At least, he thought to himself, she hadn’t said Hufflepuff. That would suggest brain damage.

“Have you thought of petitioning the Headmaster?” he asked.

“Yes, but when I asked Professor McGonagall about it, she just shook her head and said when a student has been Sorted, the decision is final. There’s no way to make an appeal,” Hermione said.

Once again, Draco was smacked in the face with something he couldn’t understand. Why should the school not accommodate anything a Pure-blood asked for? They’d actually said no to her. With a grimace, he realized that meant the same thing might happen to him as well. Still, the problem of a rather watery-eyed Hermione was walking next to him as they slowly approached the Great Hall.

“Eh, it can’t be that bad,” he said, though he really couldn’t imagine much worse than being stuck in Gryffindor. “It’s not like there’s any rule that says you have to spend all your time with them.”

“I suppose,” she said, then added abruptly, “but I’d much rather be with you.”

“Yeah, well, who wouldn’t?” he said, pleased. “I have to admit, Crabbe and Goyle aren’t exactly the greatest intellects I’ve ever come across either, but they’re alright in their own way. Maybe if you just give it some more time?”

“Maybe,” she said, then shrugged.

“Well, this is where we separate,” he said as they entered the Great Hall and glanced over at the Slytherin table, “at least for now. Keep your chin up, Mademoiselle d’Arc.”

She looked puzzled for a moment, then laughed as she remembered he was referring to her middle name. 

It was good to see her laugh as she walked away to the Gryffindor table. Draco decided not to question why he felt a particle of regret that he wasn’t walking with her to join the rest of the red and gold throng. Instead, he sat next to Nott, grabbed a ladle of hot chicken with roast potatoes and gravy, and fell to.


	15. Potions Class

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco’s first Potions lesson leads to a different sort of chemistry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author note: A few sections of dialogue have been taken from chapter 8 of _Philosopher’s (or Sorcerer’s) Stone_

Draco wasn’t entirely sure what to make of Professor Flitwick, but Charms seemed to be more interesting than any class other than Transfiguration. At any rate, Draco took great pleasure in being able to levitate his feather much faster than Nott or Zabini did. He’d actually managed to earn five points for Slytherin, which had nearly offset the deficit from the incident with the Fanged Geranium. Crabbe and Goyle were, predictably, the slowest in the class, and Draco suspected this was a trend he was likely to see continue for many years to come.

Defense against the Dark Arts, though, was enough to make him question Dumbledore’s sanity. Quirrel was basically a moron, and anyone with fashion sense terrible enough to think a gigantic purple turban was making a positive statement needed to get his head examined… possibly literally, Draco thought, as a pungent and disgusting odor followed Quirrel wherever he went. It set his nerves on edge. 

Still, at least it meant Draco could have a little fun. Each time the professor went past, he immediately held his nose, managing to resume a normal posture the moment he turned around. This led to stifled laughter from Pansy, Daphne, and Millicent, though Quirrel couldn’t figure out what the joke was and was getting annoyed. Just as Draco was really beginning to enjoy the attention, though, unfortunately Crabbe and Goyle decided to get in on the act. They were caught immediately.

“T-t-ten p-points from S-s-slytherin!” Quirrel said with surprising anger, and for a split second Draco thought he had seen the man’s eyes go red, but he chalked it up to the torchlight.

Still, there was something about him Draco didn’t like. If his complete ineptitude, the ridiculously heavy penalty to Slytherin, and the deeply offensive smell weren’t enough, there were also the disappointed faces of Crabbe and Goyle as they left class. Dim as they might be, they were his friends, and he didn’t like seeing them embarrassed.

“Points are for wankers, anyway,” Draco said encouragingly. “Everyone knows Slytherin’s best without counting the stupid emeralds in the Great Hall. Besides, Quirrel had it coming.”

“Yeah,” Crabbe agreed. “Someone ought to send him a cake of soap.”

“Or just dump a bucket of water on his head,” Goyle added. “That hat is stupid.”

“Deeply,” Draco agreed as they reached the Slytherin common room. He took one of the chairs near the enormous fireplace, Crabbe and Goyle sitting to either side of him, and stretched out luxuriously. At least here it wasn’t quite so damp.

“Off with you,” commanded a gruff voice, and Draco looked up to see a very tall boy standing in front of him. He appeared to be in seventh year… actually, judging from sheer size it appeared he was in seventh year for the third time.

“No,” Draco said coolly. “We were here first.”

“You’re a first year,” the boy said grimly. “You haven’t been here long enough to be anywhere first. Who are you anyway?”

“Draco Malfoy,” he enunciated clearly, standing with his hand on his wand. “And who precisely are you?”

The boy looked at him uncertainly, then shifted his gaze to the fireplace.

“Malfoy, you say?” he said quietly.

“Yeah,” he said firmly. “What of it?”

The boy gave him a hard glare as though he’d like to say something that would start a fight, but he held his tongue.

“Wouldn’t want to sit here anyway,” he said. “Get covered in ash that close.”

As they watched the retreating figure, Draco was feeling very gratified. Finally, some of the respect of the Malfoy name was being acknowledged. It all seemed to go right over Crabbe and Goyle’s heads, though. Crabbe was rummaging through his bookbag, which of course contained no books, and he finally produced a package of Ice Mice.

“Want some?” he offered the other two.

Draco took one without a second thought, figuring that the minty freshness of the treat might make him feel a little less drowsy, but he carefully avoided saying thank you since doing so would break his father’s rules of etiquette. Goyle took one as well, and soon their teeth were all squeaking away amiably by the fire. 

Eventually, Draco went off to the dormitory to do his homework (half a parchment on the necessity of checking under one’s bed before sleeping in a strange place for Quirrel and another go at the levitating charm for Flitwick). He wasn’t the least bit surprised that Crabbe and Goyle preferred to remain napping by the fire rather than do any work. Briefly, he wondered if the majority of the Hogwarts students really weren’t interested in what they were supposed to be learning. It certainly seemed to agree with Hermione’s description of the Gryffindors. Well, at any rate, he’d have a chance to see it first hand tomorrow since they were scheduled to have double Potions together. Somehow, Draco felt that was going to be memorable.

Draco slept a bit later than usual the next morning and found himself rushing to get dressed, stuff his Potions textbooks into his bookbag, and then run to breakfast. Sadly, the other Slytherins had not chosen to sleep in as well, and by the time he got there, there were only a couple of pieces of rather depressed-looking toast with a pathetic dab of gooseberry jam (his least favorite) each. Stuffing the leftovers in his mouth and forcing himself to wash it all down with a goblet of his hated pumpkin juice, he managed to join the silver/green and gold/red throng outside of Snape’s classroom before the professor actually arrived.

“You were late,” Crabbe said.

“Nearly,” Draco said. “What’s wrong with the help in this castle? Why is there never enough breakfast for everyone to get a decent meal?”

Goyle shrugged and picked at a bit of sausage still stuck between his teeth. Draco sighed in frustration and stared at the classroom door. Why, he wondered, was the Potions classroom a dungeon? He had a mad moment of contemplating whether his godfather might not somehow enjoy dungeons as some sort of decorating motif, what with his office, his classroom, and the common room of his house all being of a similar pattern, but before he could further ponder why Snape might want to feel like he was being punished wherever he went, the man himself arrived.

As Snape strode down the corridor. dressed in his customary black, Draco could understand why a good number of the students were pulling back in some horror. Snape was really rather impressive in a menacing way. He gave them all a look of deepest loathing mixed with disappointment as he surveyed each face one after the other, but when he got to Draco, the smallest, icy smile was on his lips for a split instant. With a bang, Snape opened the classroom door, the students following in his black-garbed wake and finding themselves seats with commendable speed, though one very small Gryffindor boy managed to trip over his own feet, sending his books flying in every direction and uttering a groan of despair as he scrambled to collect his things.

That one, Draco decided, might just be a good way to pass the time.

As Snape got out his notes, handouts, and books for the class, all in amazingly angry silence (and with a glance of sheer disgust at the Gryffindor who had tripped, and who now somehow seemed to have gotten his foot stuck in his bookbag), Draco surveyed the class. The Slytherins were at least a little less terrified than the Gryffindors, but even the sea of silver and green seemed rather unnerved. The Gryffindors, Draco was pleased to note, looked fairly ready to run screaming from the classroom, with one predictable exception. Hermione had somehow gotten textbook, parchment, quill, and ink onto the desk with no fuss at all and was busily reviewing the first chapter. Draco also noted she seemed to be the only one with a book out at all, though he had to admit, the girl with the light brown hair who was whispering nervously to her friend had an excuse. She was pretty enough not to need to study, as his father would say. As for Potter, who happened to be sitting next to Hermione, he seemed a bit dazed.

Snape began to call the roll. As each student responded quickly with “Present,” Draco noted that Snape’s reaction was different depending upon whether the boy or girl was seated with the Gryffindors or Slytherins. The Slytherins generally received a perfunctory yet polite nod of the head, while the Gryffindors earned looks of immediately dislike. Through this he was able to find out that the pretty girl was named, of all the stupid, idiotic combinations, Lavender Brown. It made her sound like a crayon color gone horribly wrong. With that name she’d better be pretty, he thought. 

Hermione’s answer of “Present!” which Draco had to admit sounded rather wildly eager, earned her an eyeroll from the Weasley sitting to her left and an unpleasant grimace from Potter along with a few stifled giggles from the other Gryffindors. He honestly couldn’t see what was so funny. He did, however, note that the idiotic crayon girl was whispering under her breath to an almost equally pretty Indian girl next to her and making whirling motions around her head as though imitating Hermione’s wild hair, which got them both laughing in suppressed snickers. Suddenly, Lavender Brown seemed much less pretty. In fact, wasn’t her nose rather excessively pointy?

Draco nearly missed his own name in the role but was actually saved by a nudge from Goyle.

“Present,” he said smoothly, trying to cover his error with an excessively confident grin.

Snape nodded again, though the nod lasted a split second longer for him than the others, before he continued with the list of names until he came to Potter.

“Ah, yes,” Snape said quietly, “our new—celebrity.”

Draco led Crabbe and Goyle is a fit of giggling of their own that he felt was entirely justified. Snape didn’t appear to notice, or perhaps he merely approved, and continued down the list, ending with Blaise. He then launched into a rather lengthy and poetic introduction to the art of potion-making that including words like shimmering and seeping, bewitching, and somehow or other “brewing glory” and “putting a stopper in death.” The melodrama was bordering on a Celestina Warbeck ballad by the time Draco was starting to nod off, when suddenly Snape’s tone changed entirely.

“Potter, what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?” he shot off as though he were seconds away from hexing him.

Oh boy, Draco thought, sitting up much straighter. This was going to be good.

“I don’t know, sir,” the bespectacled boy responded, and Draco grinned, though he had absolutely no idea what the ingredients made either.

On the other hand, Hermione looked like an invisible ghost was pulling her out of her seat by the arm she had raised it so high. Obviously, she knew. Draco was beginning to wonder if there was anything she didn’t know.

Snape clucked his tongue in mock sympathy at Potter and said, “Clearly, fame isn’t everything.. Let’s try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?”

Harry answered again that he didn’t know, but this time Draco did. Bezoars were found in goat stomachs. He’d had to swallow one when he was three after eating the leaves off his Uncle Orion’s prize Mankiller Mandrake. He considered raising his hand but decided that particular story was one he’d rather keep to himself. Instead, he led Crabbe and Goyle in another, slightly less quiet round of guffaws, laughing so hard that he heard only the words “monkshood and wolfsbane” when Snape quizzed Potter again.

“I don’t know,” Potter said, then Draco saw him get a look in his eyes that spelled trouble. “I think Hermione does, though. Why don’t you try her?”

Hermione still had her hand raised high in the air, and, yes, that settled it, she was in the wrong house. The Gryffindors were bloody well laughing at her for being smarter than St. Potter of the Holy Headscar! What was wrong with those idiots? 

This, Draco decided, meant war.

“Sit down,” Snape said to Hermione in a tone that made Draco frown. She might be a Gryffindor, but still, there was such a thing as manners among Pure-bloods.

Snape launched into a diatribe about potions, aconite, and the idiocy of the students in general, culminating in taking one point from Gryffindor. One? Draco grumbled loudly. Why did Sprout hit him with minus ten and Potter got off with only one?

The potion to cure boils, the thought of which disgusted Draco to the point where he was rather glad he’d gotten only toast this morning, went fairly well. The directions were simple enough if they were followed carefully, and Draco found he had a knack for this sort of thing, which was lucky as Crabbe nearly caused their shared cauldron to explode. Snape seemed pleased with Draco, at any rate, which was a good thing as it undoubtedly distracted him from looking at the mess Goyle and Bulstrode had created in their cauldron. Draco’s experience with potion making was admittedly thin, but he was absolutely certain it wasn’t a good sign when the ingredients were trying to walk away, especially if they’d never been alive in the first place. When the pathetic boy accidentally made a highly corrosive acid that came close to dissolving the shoes of everyone near his melted cauldron, Draco decided he was having rather a good day, especially when Snape thought Potter had done it (though really, Draco couldn’t follow the logic there) and had penalized Gryffindor again… for another lousy single point, but still, these things do add up.

Potions ended without anyone losing a limb, which Draco thought was rather a miracle, and the Gryffindors and Slytherins poured into the corridor as though they had been freed from jail... which was a rather apt description as they were leaving a dungeon, after all. As the Gryffindors went one direction and the Slytherins the other, Draco looked over his shoulder to see if he could catch Hermione’s eye. He was just in time to see Lavender and Parvati setting on her, one pulling her hair hard from behind to distract her as the other yanked her bookbag off her shoulder and to the floor before they took off running, giggling in a truly annoying way.

“Hey!” he yelled before he could stop himself.

The other Slytherins had already gone ahead, and Hermione and he were alone in the hallway. She was on her knees, picking up her scattered (and unsurprisingly numerous) books, when Draco crouched next to her and grabbed her copy of History of Magic.

“Couple of gits, those two,” he said, cramming it back in her bag, but Hermione didn’t look up from the floor. “I can see them ending up with Potter and Weasley. Of course, the children would be morons.”

“I really, really hate this school,” she said through gritted teeth. He’d been half-afraid she was crying, but one look at her face corrected that thought. No, she was about as angry as anyone he’d ever seen. “Maybe I should transfer to Beauxbatons.”

“Don’t bother,” Draco said, wrinkling his nose. “I met a few of them once when my family was vacationing in Nice. It’s like a whole school full of those two.”

Granted, Draco thought, it wasn’t just that they were all snobs but that they were also almost ridiculously attractive, but he didn’t mention that bit. Hermione huffed loudly at him and sat back on her heels, looking at him curiously.

“What?” he asked.

“I’ve got an idea.”

It wasn’t what she said. It was how she said it. Whatever was going on under that riot of curls was undoubtedly at least slightly evil, and he found himself grinning.

“Does it involve revenge?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said firmly.

Then he frowned.

“Can we get detention for it?” he asked. It wouldn’t do for his parents to get notice that their son was besmirching the Malfoy name with detention during the first week of school.

Hermione squinted and turned her head sideways, considering, and he could almost swear he could see her lips moving as though she were going through the entire Hogwarts Code of Student Conduct.

“Actually, I think there’s a loophole,” she said, smiling broadly.

“Then count me in!” he said, slinging his own backpack on his shoulder.

“There’s only one little problem,” she said as they walked along. “I’ll need to do some research about poltergeists.”

“What, you mean Peeves?” Draco said, looking at her curiously.

“Mmm,” she said, nodding. “I’ll need to find some way to bribe him for this to work.”

Draco laughed, and now it was Hermione’s turn to look confused.

“Mademoiselle d’Arc,” he said with a bow, “you have absolutely no idea how easy that will be. I told you before, friends can be useful, especially those with the right connections, and you’ve got one. Now, tell me, what precisely did you have in mind?”

They walked off together, happily laying out their battle strategies and snickering with anticipation.


	16. Sweet Revenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At long last, Hermione and Draco give Lavender and Parvati a taste of their own medicine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author note: I’m sorry because this took FOREVER for me to write. It’s not perfect, but rather than writing and re-writing it to death, I figured imperfect was better than nothing at all. Also, this is now officially 100 pages long. Whew!

Plans for the Great Revenge Caper were progressing, and Draco was enjoying himself immensely. For the next few days, Hermione and he were owling one another multiple times at all hours. Draco had insisted that passing notes in class would be much speedier, but Hermione looked at him with undisguised horror.

“We might get in trouble! Besides, I want to pay attention to the lessons,” she said simply as they held a brief war council in a deserted corridor before dinner.

“Fine, fine, have it your way,” Draco said with a melodramatic sigh. 

He still found it chaffing that he couldn’t have his own way in everything at Hogwarts, and the indignity of having to bend to rules he didn’t like felt very insulting. Still, Hermione had a point. Pansy had been penalized three points for trying to pass a note to Daphne in Transfiguration, but then again she’d really been rather stupid about it. McGonagall wasn’t the kind of professor one tried to fool about anything. But Binns? He was the sort where you could stage a full blown ballet in the middle of his classroom and never have him catch wise. Draco had a momentary vision of Crabbe and Goyle in frilly pink tutus and stifled a laugh.

However, Draco also needed Persephone to carry out an errand that was unrelated to revenge, one that made him feel a bit odd. He’d had been struggling with the idea of buying a gift for Hermione’s birthday. On one hand, he firmly reminded himself, he was betrothed to Pansy, and he was relatively sure neither she nor his parents would appreciate the idea that he was buying another girl a birthday present. On the other hand, Hermione was not anything like a girlfriend to him, so there was no real reason for Pansy to be jealous. Granted, Pansy wasn’t really his girlfriend either; in fact, he found that while he certainly noticed when a girl was pretty, other things were far more interesting, like Quidditch or the newest Zonko’s products or House points or any number of things. Still, Pansy certainly fell into the category of pretty girls, and, if Draco were honest with himself, Hermione, well… didn’t.

Eventually, Draco did what he usually did. He did what he wanted, and to hell with what everyone else thought, at least for now. He supposed if he really did get into trouble he could always find a way to smooth things over. Still, as Draco filled out the order form for a bar of the best chocolate from a tiny wizarding sweet shop in France that his family had visited on holiday a few summers ago, he caught himself feeling strangely nervous. Persephone held out her foot with a little more patience than usual, and he carefully tied the paper and a few Sickles into a small bag and then onto her leg.

“Am I doing something stupid?” he asked her.

The eagle owl hooted back and fanned her wings, eager to be out the window and off, apparently ignoring his question.

“Of course not. I’m a Malfoy. It’s physically impossible for me to be stupid,” he said, trying to put enough feeling into the words to be sure he believed them. “If there’s any problem, you’ll let me know, right?” 

Persephone bobbed her head twice, then took off through the magical window and into the autumn sunset. Draco watched her until she became nothing but a speck in the distance, heading towards Provence. At any rate, he told himself, there was no need to worry yet. Hermione’s birthday wasn’t for more than a week, and any number of things could happen between now and then, not least of which was their little revenge plot.

Just at that moment, another owl alighted on the sill and stood, hooting insistently. Since Hermione used school owls for their communications, Draco never knew what bird would show up with her latest letter. This one seemed particularly impatient, though.

“All right, all right,” he said, quickly detaching the roll of parchment. “Keep your feathers on!”

The bird did not fly off, though, and instead stood on the sill, tapping her clawed foot and looking at him with an expression he associated with an annoyed McGonagall. Apparently, Hermione had told the owl to wait for a reply. She’d never done that before. Raising an eyebrow in curiosity, he opened the letter. It was very brief.

_I think it had better be tomorrow at breakfast. I don’t want to lose my nerve. Agreed?_

Draco sucked in a deep breath. Tomorrow? They’d spent a good bit of time covering their tracks and being certain neither of them could be pinned with anything incriminating, so he really had no worries there, but it was still sudden. All he needed to do was put pen to paper and make it definite. He paused, picked up his pen, and added only one word to the note.

_Yes._

The paper was once again attached to the owl’s still-tapping leg (no easy task), and it took off in a flurry of dull brown feathers. Draco wasn’t sure how he would sleep that night, but he found that trying to remember the lecture Binns had given on post-Neanderthal fire spells put him out faster than a whole bottle of Tadwick’s Slumbering Solution. 

His sleep was uneasy, though. All night long, he dreamed he was looking for something, wandering from room to room in the castle. He wasn’t sure what he was searching for, only that it was something very important, something that he’d forgotten. Each room he entered became progressively darker and more unsettling until finally he was certain the object was behind the door he was about to open. He knew now that he didn’t want to find whatever the thing was, that once he saw it, something terrible would happen, but he felt compelled to open the door. He placed a hand on the knob, cold and rusty beneath his fingertips, and fought against some outside pressure to turn it. He thought he heard his mother’s voice saying, “It’s your duty,” but at the very last moment, just as a thin seam of darkness was opening between the heavy wooden door and the frame, he jolted awake.

Draco shook his head, clearing it from the strange nightmare, and realized that this was it. The day had come. For once, there was no way he would possibly be late for breakfast. He threw on his robes with almost comic speed, grabbed his bag, and shot through the Slytherin common room like a Nimbus 2000 with its tail on fire. Perhaps it wasn’t the most dignified exit, but for once in his pure-blood life, Draco really didn’t care. He was having far too much fun.

As per their careful plan, Draco attended to some important business on his way up from the dungeons and then met Hermione just outside the Great Hall by the suit of armor that was holding a mace made of Bowtruckle bones. She was already there when he arrived, and the moment she saw him, she burst into a truly devilish grin, which had an immediate twin on his own face.

“Ready?” he asked as they moved unobtrusively through the sea of black robes.

“Merlin, yes,” she said. “They were worse than ever last night in the girls’ dormitory. They poured color changing ink all over my pillow last night when I was asleep. Do you have any idea how hard that is to get out of your hair?”

Draco noted that one small, unruly curl near her right temple was indigo blue, but as he watched it slowly changed to a truly horrifying shade of tangerine. He wrinkled his nose in disgust at the two girls.

“Amateur hour,” he said dismissively. “They really have no idea who they’re playing with, do they?”

“Well, in fairness, they don’t realize they’re going up against a serpent as well as a lioness,” she said, smiling even more broadly. “No one could expect to beat that combination. Come on, we need to get a good view of this. The southwest corner should provide the best vantage point, but we’ll need to split up to avoid suspicion.”

Draco nodded in agreement as they continued onward. He didn’t even think about breakfast, or for that matter the fact that he was walking openly in the Great Hall with a Gryffindor at his elbow. Eventually, Hermione stopped on the pretense of checking her book bag for something, and Draco continued on a few paces more, leaving several small groups of students between them before he casually removed a small whistle from his pocket. When he blew it, not a single head turned towards him since it didn’t make any noise a human could hear, but a scant few seconds later Peeves was rocketing into the Great Hall, right on cue.

The poltergeist whizzed once around the Great Hall, causing students to duck right and left, terrified that water balloons or worse would come flying at them, but that wasn’t his game today. Instead, after shooting a surreptitious look at Draco, he skidded to a halt in front of the dais where the teachers were eating their breakfast. Dumbledore’s spoonful of porridge paused in its course towards his mouth, and Snape seemed to have eaten a bad boiled egg from his sour expression, but Peeves quickly turned his back on the faculty, blowing a quiet raspberry in token of wishing them a good morning, and faced the students. He cleared his throat loudly then put his hands behind his back and stood as though he were about to recite a lesson promptly burst into song.

_“Oh, the gorgeous girls of Gryffindor  
Are such a mighty prize!  
Their brains and cunning are well known;  
You can’t believe your eyes!  
In fact that’s really quite the truth,  
For things are rarely what they seem,  
And what is seen and what is real  
Only rarely form a team!  
Look at that dear Lavender Brown,  
Possessed of lovely form and face,”_

At this Lavender smiled and actually took the opportunity to blow Peeves a kiss.

“Merlin, she really is thick, isn’t she,” Draco muttered under his breath.

_“But without glamours or enchantments strong  
Things would take a different pace!”_

The smallest of changes started to occur to Lavender’s features, and it took most of the students a moment to realize that a whole bevy of beauty spells she had used were starting to melt away. Three large spots, one each on her chin, nose and forehead, were rapidly appearing from underneath concealing charms, and her previously perfectly sleek ponytail was unraveling into a tangled mess as her veritable cornucopia of controlling spells on it broke. Her hands went immediately to her face as dozens of little imperfections suddenly became perfectly clear, but it appeared Peeves wasn’t yet done with his song.

_“Yes, that is the face that you truly wear,  
But you are not alone in your tricks,  
For sweet Parvati, that radiant pearl,  
Shall now see if her enchantment sticks!”_

A glance at Parvati showed that her own complexion was suddenly far from clear itself, as well as having a rather sizable mole above her right eyebrow that had previously been charmed into submission. The two girls stared at each other in horror.

_“But if the outside mirrored the way of the heart,  
And showed them for who indeed they are  
A pair of old hags would sit in their place,  
With nary an inch without a mar!”_

And then, quite suddenly, the two girls looked utterly dreadful. Where one spot had been, six appeared. Unruly hair took on the proportions normally seen only on people who had stuck their fingers into an electrical outlet. Parvati’s nose increased to three times its original length and developed a hook that made her resemble Snape, and Lavender’s hair became streaked with grey while crows feet imprinted themselves at the corners of her eyes.

The result from the rest of the student body was truly uproarious laughter as the duo shot back towards the corridor, their robes pulled up to hide their faces, wailing in misery as they sped towards the Hospital Wing. 

Peeves took a victory lap around the tables, and just before he left, shouted, “Lavender fancies Michael Corner! Parvati thinks Anthony Goldstein is fit!” before shooting back through the doors and off to parts unknown.

The general uproar, which suggested at least half the student body had their own issues with Lavender and Parvati, provided the perfect camouflage for the two plotters, who had ducked down into a deserted corridor as the students began to head towards their first class.

Draco looked at Hermione, who had her lips pressed together while her whole face was going red, and then at exactly the same moment, they burst out laughing.

“That was absolutely brilliant!” Draco said. “I can’t believe we pulled that off!”

“The only ones I’m a little worried about are the teachers,” Hermione said as she slid down the wall to sit with her legs sticking out in front of her. Draco sat beside her in moment, even though the idea of getting his robes dirty on the floor wasn’t very appealing. “They probably know Poltergeists can’t actually do magic.”

“Yeah, maybe, but no one’s going to peg that display on First Years,” he said proudly. “How did you manage to get the Reversing Solution into all that rubbish they slather on their faces?”

“Oh, that wasn’t the hard bit,” Hermione said. “They leave their things all over the place in our dormitory. The real trick was getting it to start working in response to the words pace and sticks, then go into overkill on mar.”

“And it really will wear off in an hour?” Draco asked.

“Yes,” Hermione said. “I’m sure. That test I did on myself two nights ago worked perfectly.”

“You’re amazing,” he said, shaking his head. “Absolutely amazing!”

“Well, you’re the one who managed to get Peeves to cooperate,” she said, grinning. “That’s unbelievably impressive! Poltergeists are notoriously difficult to control.”

Draco felt an unaccustomed warm sensation on his face, and he realized he was blushing. He had no idea why, and he decided not to ponder the question.

“Best get to class,” he said, clambering to his feet then turning to offer her a hand up. Perhaps, just possibly, her fingers trembled a tiny bit in his grasp, but he thought it was best to add that to the list of things he was deciding not to think about too much.

“See you in Potions, Drake,” she said over her shoulder.

“Adieu, Mademoiselle d’Arc,” he called after her.

She’d never called him that before, but he found he didn’t mind. In fact, he rather liked it. He was halfway to History of Magic when he stopped short, struck by a sudden thought. They wouldn’t need to be plotting all the time now. There weren’t going to be any more urgent exchanges of owls or secret meetings to sort out last minute details. That made him feel strangely empty, and, honestly, a little worried that perhaps now that she no longer needed his help, she might just fade into the background. 

Just at that moment, Peeves whipped into sight and gave Draco a deep bow. He looked around to make sure no one had seen the gesture, and when he was sure they were safe, he permitted his features to assume the moderately pleased expression his father wore on rare occasions when Draco had done something particularly impressive. He was trying for “suave urbanity,” but judging by Peeves’s reaction of sticking out his tongue and crossing his eyes, he’d missed the mark. Damn. He was going to have to practice in front of the mirror again when the others were out.

“Stop that at once,” he commanded with as much authority as he could muster, and he was glad to see Peeves grimace and grudgingly stop pulling faces. “You did well.”

“Like doing my own poetry better, I do,” Peeves said, “but the rest was funny fun fun!”

“Right,” Draco said. Peeves was best in small doses. “You can go now. I’m pleased. You’re safe from being ejected from the castle until at least March… provided you don’t harm anyone I like, of course.”

Peeves bowed once more then floated off behind a corner and immediately blew the loudest raspberrry Draco had ever heard. Even the poltergeist’s rudeness and disrespect for proper authority couldn’t dampen his elation over the success (and lack of detention) from their plan, although he was already plotting ways to make sure Hermione and he would remain a decidedly dangerous duo.


	17. Flying and Failing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first day of flying lessons leads to a whole series of complications.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author note: Some dialog take from chapter 9 of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. There were actually 16 months between when I finished the last chapter and this one. Hopefully, my muse won't take that long of a hike ever again.

In looking back years later, those few short days seemed golden. Practically everything was going his way. His parents were pleased with him, his classes were generally more interesting than he’d thought possible, his roommates were perfectly acceptable despite their shortcomings, and even if Slytherin’s dungeon was cold and damp, it was beginning to feel like home. 

But best of all, he had a friend, someone actually equal to his intelligence, a Pure-blood who enjoyed a devious trick on her enemies with exactly the same level of relish that he did. 

He never saw the train coming.

Just when things seemed like they couldn’t possibly get any better, Madame Hooch’s flying lessons were posted. While his own broom was still banned from Hogwarts since he was a first year, he could hardly wait to get back into the sky again, even if it was on an inferior quality model. He was surprised to find, though, that Hermione was decidedly nervous.

“You’ve never flown before?” he asked in surprise as they walked towards the Great Hall for breakfast the morning of their first flying lesson.

“No,” she said, looking nervous, “and I really, really don’t like heights.”

So that was it, he thought. Well, that was understandable. While his father never would have stood for Draco refusing to get on a broom out of fear, a sure sign of weakness, he knew Hermione was no coward. Everyone had their own personal phobias, he suspected, possibly even his father. While Draco would never outright call it fear, he had noticed his father strongly disliked rats. He chucked Hermione on the shoulder gamely and gave her an encouraging smile.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “You’ll do fine.”

She gave him an uncertain smile in return that actually looked rather sick as she headed to the Gryffindor table (where he noted she was still eating alone), and he felt his brow furrow. She really did look worried. He’d never heard of a witch who couldn’t master a broom, but he knew how he’d feel if there was a skill he wasn’t sure he could do that he’d be asked to perform for the first time in front of the whole year. Maybe it was possible he could deflect attention off of her somehow. 

No sooner had he started running through different plots to act as a distraction than one presented itself. Neville Longbottom was sitting several empty seats down from Hermione, the remains of a package in front of him, and staring at a Rememberall. Draco’s eyes lit with malicious glee. A Rememberall was probably the stupidest gadget in the wizarding world. It didn’t tell you what you’d forgotten, only that you had, so it was good only for making the person using it feel like a right idiot.

It was also nearly the same size as a Snitch.

The day passed slowly to Draco, as days when he was looking forward to something usually did, but when he finally went out to the Quidditch pitch with the rest of the first years, the wait was worth it. While the brooms arrayed on the ground were hand-me-downs and obviously unfashionable, they were still brooms. Normally he wouldn’t have insulted his posterior with sitting on their ilk, but today they were tickets straight to the clouds, and that was all he cared about.

The four houses automatically separated into two sides with Ravenclaw and Slytherin taking one row of brooms and Hufflepuff and Gryffindor the row across from them. This worked perfectly for Draco as he could keep a discreet eye on Hermione, who was standing directly in front of him. Goyle and Crabbe were on either side of him, and he was vaguely aware of Potter, Weasley, Patil, and Brown around Hermione. Thankfully Lavender and Parvati didn’t seem to be paying any attention to her. Hermione’s face was puckered with worry as she stared at the broom’s handle. He hoped she might look up at him for a moment so he could give her a reassuring nod, but it was like the ash handle had hypnotized her. He did not have a good feeling about this.

He paid almost no attention to the instructions from Madam Hooch until she finally told them to mount their broomsticks. Draco could hardly wait, and when the word “Up!” came out of his mouth, the broom shot to his hand as though it too had been impatiently waiting to take off. Draco glanced up and down the two rows to see who had managed to get it on the first try and was annoyed to see Potter had done it (though secretly he wondered if he had just stooped down and picked it up when everyone else had been busy looking at other things). Most people had gotten it after a few moments, but Hermione’s broom still lay in the dirt, rolling a little from side to side and twitching half-heartedly. Her face was bright red from exertion, and she was chewing her lip to bloody bits.

Okay, he thought, time for plan B. He was just about to use a summoning charm on the Remberall and send it ricocheting around the field when Longbottom very kindly turned himself into the biggest, most ridiculous distraction all on his own. Neville’s broom had rocketed off with him in tow, zigzagging from one end of the field to the other, looping towers, nearly impaling him on tree branches, and generally trying to kill him. It was actually a little alarming, but at least no one was looking at Hermione, so Longbottom had done one thing right, even if it was on accident.

The show ended with Neville’s near demise, and Hooch dragged him off to the hospital wing with a broken wrist. About a third of their year was openly shaking after the terrifying one boy aerial ballet, but most people were starting to laugh at his total failure, and Draco was sure it would take years for Longbottom to live this down. Granted, he didn’t care about him, but the school obviously wasn’t using easy brooms on the first years if it was even possible for that accident to happen. That meant Hermione could easily be next, and that wouldn’t do.

Then he saw it lying on the ground, a gift from Merlin: the Remberall had fallen from Longbottom’s pocket. It was the perfect tool to get them all out of practice for the rest of class, slap some of the Gryffindors with lost House points, and let Draco show off his skills at the same time. Later, he’d find a way for Hermione to be suitably tutored in private, even if he had to do it himself.

“Did you see his face, the great lump?” he said, laughing heartily.

“Shut up, Malfoy,” said Parvati--or was it Padma? He couldn’t see her scarf at the moment and the two were bloody impossible to tell apart without color coding their wardrobes.

“Oo, sticking up for Longbottom? Never thought you’d like fat little crybabies, Parvati,” Pansy chimed in, and Draco couldn’t tell if he was more surprised that she knew which twin was which or that he was getting added support from an unlooked for ally.

“Look!” he said, making his move and snatching the Rememberall from its resting place on the grass, then tossing it in the air in triumph.

“Give that here, Malfoy,” Potter said, and yes, that was precisely what he’d been hoping for. He grinned that his plan was going exactly as he’d hoped.

“I think I’ll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find—how about—up a tree!” he said as he took off on the school broom, enjoying the immediate rush of freedom regardless of the simply dreadful steering it had. Potter was yelping something, and yes, exactly as he’d thought, the fool was going to try to follow him on his broom. Potter was going to make a laughingstock of himself. 

“Come and get it, Potter!” he called gleefully and took off.

He faintly heard Hermione’s voice yelling something towards him about Madam Hooch and getting into trouble, which was a fair point, but he found that he didn’t much care. This was far too much fun. He turned about to see Potter’s pathetic attempt at flying, already beaming wildly.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t quite how it turned out. Potter, it seemed, was a natural. With a groan, he realized the other boy was racing towards him with surprising speed and coming to a perfect stop without even having to try.

“Give it here or I’ll knock you off that broom!” he yelled.

Frankly, Draco was rather stunned. They were at least thirty-five feet up, so Potter was actually threatening him with serious harm, maybe even death, over a stupid Rememberall. Draco was furious.

“Oh yeah?” he retorted, but he couldn’t keep a little shaking from his voice considering this kid had just threatened to kill him.

Unbelievably, Potter followed through exactly on his words, shooting the broom at Draco at top speed. Draco was honestly terrified. The other boy had never been on a broom before and probably had no idea how hard it was to stop or even turn at that speed even on a good model. Draco dodged, but barely. It was far too close for comfort.

“No Crabbe and Goyle up here to save your neck, Malfoy,” Potter said through a sneer, and suddenly Draco realized he might actually be dealing with a homicidal maniac. 

“Catch it if you can, then!” Draco yelled as he did the only sensible thing and threw the damn ball as far away as he could, hoping Potter would chase it rather than him, which thankfully he did.

By the time Draco was back on the ground, Harry had already caught the Rememberall. It had been a spectacular catch, and all of Gryffindor, accompanied by Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, were applauding Mr. Scarhead wildly. Slytherin was looking daggers at them all, but Draco didn’t want to land in front of them. Carefully, he brought his broom to a soft landing on the turf just behind them and stepped off. He noticed his hands were shaking. This felt uncomfortably like failure.

At that exact moment, McGonagall came and dragged Potter away, dismissing the class. Well, at least that aim had been achieved. The students broke into scattered groups as the brooms whizzed through the air on their own back to the broom shed. People were wandering back into the castle, most complaining about not being able to fly that day and obviously blaming him for it all, but no one seemed to mind having a free hour. Eventually, he was the only one left on the castle lawn. 

The feeling of being sick came on him all at once. He just had time to lurch behind a shrub before his lunch came back up and he dropped to his knees. At least, he thought to himself as he tried to fight off the feeling of sick fear, no one was here to him like this.

“Oh, Drake, are you all right?”

Check that, he thought. This was now officially the worst day on record. Without a word or even turning around, he motioned for her to move away, but she ignored him.

“That was really deeply stupid,” she said.

“Yeah, I figured that out on my own,” he said, sitting on a large rock beside the bush and hoping he didn’t have another round of nausea.

“I mean, you shouldn’t have picked on Neville that way since he’s actually probably the only decent boy in Gryffindor, but that Potter is a stark raving lunatic!” she said. “I think he was trying to kill you!”

He blinked. She agreed with him. Well, she was the only other one who seemed to see it that way.

“At least I got the class cancelled,” he said, giving her a shaky smile. “You’ll have a bit more time to brush up on flying before next week.”

She stared at him in silence for a second before she said, “That’s why you did it?”

“You’re not the only one capable of coming up with mayhem you know,” he said. “Look, I’ve got it all figured out. We’ll find a way to cadge a couple of brooms, and when there’s a free period, we’ll go up on the Astronomy Tower and I’ll walk you through it. No one uses that place during daylight anyway.”

Hermione’s mouth seemed to working as though she were looking for words but failing to find them. Eventually she just let her mouth hang open in dead on shock.

“What?” Draco said.

“That’s possibly the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me,” she said. 

“Eh, consider it an early birthday present,” he said, getting to his feet. “With any luck, McGonagall will give us an even better one and chuck that maniac out of here.”

“Maybe,” Hermione said, but she sounded less than optomistic. 

“I think I’ll head back to the common room for a bit,” Malfoy said, not mentioning that he wanted to change his robes before anyone realized there was sick on them. “See you at dinner.”

“Mmm,” Hermione said, obviously thinking of something else entirely and staring at a nearby tree as though it held the secrets to the universe. “Maybe so.”

But no sooner had Draco stepped into the Great Hall for dinner that night than he knew something had gone dreadfully wrong. Yes, the Gryffindors were indeed clustered together and talking all at one time, but their mood seemed happy. That simply wasn’t possible, Draco thought, unless of course Potter had been offering to murder them in their beds as well, and he couldn’t rule out that possibility. His curiosity finally got the better of him, and he approached enemy territory, sidling toward their table with what he hoped was a believable swagger.

“Having a last meal, Potter? When are you getting a train back to the Muggles?” he said, sounded more confident than he felt.

“You’re a lot braver now that you’re back on the ground and you’ve got your little friends with you,” he responded.

Draco hadn’t even realized Crabbe and Goyle were shadowing him, and it took all his control not to visibly start when they stepped into view on either side of him. Actually, that could be a very useful skill.

“I’ll take you on anytime on my own,” Draco said, narrowing his eyes. No one called a Malfoy a coward, and his sense of family honor was what prompted him to add what happened next. “Tonight if you want. Wizard’s duel. Wands only—no contact. What’s the matter? Never heard of a wizard’s duel before, I suppose?”

Actually, he really hoped Potter had no idea what a wizard’s duel was because his mouth had run away from him before it had time to talk to his brain. While he doubted Potter knew the Killing Curse, he wouldn’t put it past him.

“Of course he has. I’m his second, who’s yours?” the slouchy Weasley said indignantly.

Well, that was that. He was probably going to die. He glanced between Crabbe and Goyle, hoping one of them might volunteer, but neither seemed to know exactly what was going on.

“Crabbe,” Malfoy said, deciding alphabetical order was as good a way to choose as anything else. “Midnight, all right? We’ll meet you in the trophy room; that’s always unlocked.”

With that, he turned to walk away, barely catching a look of sheer terror from Hermione, who had obviously heard everything, as he left with Crabbe and Goyle following in his wake. What could possibly go wrong with this scenario, he thought with rising panic. Actually, was there any way this could possibly go right?

Draco sat down to dinner, a ham with mint jelly, and ate absolutely nothing. Crabbe and Goyle more than made up for it as the House-elves had to replenish the entire ham twice with them leading the way. The mood at the Slytherin table seemed decidedly somber aside from the pair of them clearing their way through piles of pork. 

“What? Who died?” Draco finally said, unable to take the silence anymore.

“McGonagall just gave Potter the Seeker spot on the Gryffindor team,” Blaise said, looking at him accusingly. “Apparently she never would have realized he’s a world class flyer unless you’d been taunting him earlier.”

Marcus Flint cracked his knuckles menacingly. Draco gulped.

“He’s not expelled?” Draco asked.

“Not in the slightest,” Daphne said. 

Even Pansy looked like she was disgusted with him. Wonderful, all he needed was his mother getting a letter from his betrothed saying she refused to marry him because he’d done something to besmirch the Slytherin Quidditch team.

“But first years aren’t allowed,” Draco said, grasping at straws. If they were, he’d be on the Slytherin team himself.

“Special permission from the Headmaster,” Nott said. 

Draco fought back the urge to rub his hands over his face in frustration. A Malfoy did not show stress in public.

“Probably fall flat on his face at the first opportunity,” he said, hoping he was right.

He glanced over his shoulder at the Gryffindor table once again. They were laughing and staring at the Slytherins, and they couldn’t appear any jollier if it were Christmas.

“All part of the plan,” he lied, trying desperately to find some way to construct a plan out of the charred remains of his mistake. “You’ll see.”

“Yeah,” Crabbe said helpfully. “The plan.”

Goyle nodded in agreement. If nothing else, they seemed convincing, which made the table seem a tiny bit less frosty. Of course, they had no idea what they were talking about, but their show of faith in him was encouraging. 

Still, even if he pulled off this duel tonight without getting killed or even maimed, there was another problem he hadn’t thought about. Chances were extremely high that Filch or one of the other professors would catch them out of bed, and both houses would get points taken away, or more likely with his current luck, Gryffindor would escape unscathed while Slytherin would be hit with some ridiculous number deducted. No one would ever speak to him again. He certainly wouldn’t if he were in their shoes. There had to be some way to turn this to his advantage, but what?

With a sinking heart, he trudged back to the dormitory and tried to think of a plan. He was completely alone, and the chill from the walls seemed to creep into his bones and make him even more miserable. Just as he was about to give up all hope, a loud tapping echoed through the room. An owl was pecking urgently at the windowpane. Draco let it in, and immediately it deposited a note on the bed and flew out the window without waiting for a reply.

_Draco,_

_What were you thinking! That was seriously one of the stupidest things I have ever seen anyone do._

“Wow, Hermione, thank you so much for stating the obvious,” he mumbled.

_But I do owe you a favor, and besides, I wouldn’t trust Harry Potter or that Ronald Weasley as far as I could throw them without magic. I actually tried to appeal to their Gryffindor pride, telling them that they were going to get in trouble and the whole House would suffer for it, but they’re being selfish as usual._

Draco winced when he was reminded that he had completely ignored his House’s best interests as well, but at least he had company in that. On the other hand, look at what company it was.

_I think I have a plan, but it’s completely daft, so I’m not going to say what it is, and no, you can’t talk me out of it._

“Oh, that’s encouraging,” he said, banging his head against the ornate headboard in frustration.

_Just trust me._

Those three words brought him up short. He was reminded of the mantelpiece in the common room, and it seemed as though Slytherin House was telling him that he was an idiot if he was actually going to blindly trust her to get him out of this predicament. After all, if he thought about it, the only reason he’d gotten into all this to begin with was he’d tried to help her, and if he’d only let her fend for herself, he wouldn’t have needed to challenge Potter to a duel to being with. His father, he was sure, would immediately say that the blame belonged on someone other than a Malfoy. Trust was for fools.

“Well then,” he said, folding up the note and sticking it in his pocket, “I suppose I’ll have to be a fool since I don’t see any other way out.”

As midnight slowly approached, Draco tried to prepare for a duel. Granted, it would have been easier to do that if he had the slightest idea what a duel entailed. He knew that his father had taken part in one when he was in his twenties at the Dark Lord’s request. Apparently things had gotten rather dull during a banquet and this had been his idea of entertainment. Draco could only assume his father had won since he was obviously still alive, but he’d never found out how he’d managed it. Maybe he could levitate a feather at Potter and tickle him until he cried for mercy? 

“Ready?” Crabbe asked as he got heavily to his feet. He’d been having a kip on the common room sofa, and his hair was every which way. What a fearsome pair they were going to look.

“I guess so,” Draco said, and to his alarm his voice cracked. He grimaced with determination, threw a cloak on over his school robes for the sole purpose of looking slightly more intimidating, and said. “All right. Let’s go.”

No one else was up this late on a school night, so Draco and Crabbe made it out the door and down the dungeon corridor without incident. The trophy room was up three more flights of stares, and since they couldn’t risk a light without bringing the wrath of Filch down on their heads, they were stumbling along as quietly as possible. They got turned around at least four times, at one point winding up in front of a painting of a bowl of fruit that included a pear that was giggling in a most unnerving manner. 

“Weird,” Crabbe said, and Draco nodded in agreement.

Somewhere, a clock began to chime twelve just as Draco and Crabbe rounded the corner that led to the trophy room entrance. He heard voices, more than just Ron’s and Harry’s, echoing towards him, and he thought one of them might be Hermione’s.

“Get down and be quiet,” Malfoy whispered to Crabbe, and they both slunk low towards the floor so that the base of the trophy cases would completely obscure them from view. 

Draco waited, listening to the three of them along with Neville arguing about what they should do and whether he would even show up. Carefully, he poked his head around the corner. Hermione was standing opposite him, the only one who could possibly see him. Almost immediately, he saw a start of recognition and surprise on her face, even annoyance, and she moved her hand, flicking it quickly to the right in a gesture that clearly meant he should leave straight away. 

Draco ducked his head back behind the case then motioned for Crabbe to follow him. Barely a moment later, he heard Filch’s suddenly dulcet tones coming from the other corridor that the Gryffindors must have used to get to the trophy room, and yes, he was hot on their trail. It was sheer perfection, hearing Weasley and Potter pelting down the hallway at top speed, obviously terrified that Filch was going to give all of them detention, and the old caretaker right on their heels. Then it suddenly struck Draco that something must have gone dreadfully wrong with Hermione’s plan. He was sure she hadn’t intended to get caught with them, but he didn’t see any way she could avoid it, and worse, he couldn’t think of a way out of it for her.

“Let’s get out of here,” Draco said. “The duel’s off, and I don’t want Filch getting us after them.”

Crabbe nodded, looking not the least bit ruffled by the whole experience. They made their way back to the dormitory without any further incident, and Crabbe immediately lay down and was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow. Draco, however, was too confused to sleep. He couldn’t understand what had gone wrong. Obviously, this hadn’t been Hermione’s plan. He pulled the note back out of his pocket and read it again, only to feel like an utter prat when he realized he’d been so put out about her insistence on trusting her that he hadn’t noticed his thumb had been covering the rest of the line.

_Don’t go._

He smacked his head with his palm, wondering how he could have made such a stupid mistake. So _he_ was what had gone wrong with the plan. 

The next morning, the sunlight broke through the false window with an unwarranted warmth for a September morning, and no sooner had the oranges and reds of dawn of dawn faded from the sky than an owl fluttered through the window without the preamble of knocking. It landed directly at the foot of Draco’s bed and proceeded to peck at his toes through the blankets until he was most definitely awake.

“I bet I know who that’s from,” he said, frowning. 

Sure enough, he opened the scroll to see Hermione’s handwriting once again.

_We didn’t get caught._

“Thank Circe for small favors,” Draco said, then bit his tongue as Blaise rolled over in his sleep. He had to get out of this habit.

_I don’t understand why you were there, but the plan I had went badly anyway. I’d tipped off a Hufflepuff boy, Anthony Goldstein, that Potter and Weasley were going to be out of bed after hours. He seemed much too happy to get them in trouble, but I did give them another warning on top of everything else, so they had more than their fair share of chances to turn around. He sent an owl to Filch a few minutes before midnight that if he wanted to catch students out of bed, all he needed to do was check the trophy room._

It was perfectly simple and perfectly obvious, even rather deliciously devious, but the hole in it was she was sacrificing her own house points to do it. Well, nothing was perfect outside of a Malfoy. Still, there was something he didn’t quite understand…

_I wasn’t supposed to be there at all. The common room guard left her post and I couldn’t get back in, so unless I wanted to hang about alone at night in the corridors with the Bloody Baron drifting about, I had to go with them._

Draco nodded. So that was what went wrong.

_Poor Neville forgot the password and was camping out in the hallway as it was, so he ended up coming along._

Draco tried to stifle a laugh at the image of the kid stuck out in the middle of night in the hallway, but even so he still snorted loudly enough that Zabini shifted again.

_I do wish you’d been able to trust me though._

That stopped him cold. Somehow her handwriting even managed to look disappointed. It had been an honest mistake, but she had no way of knowing that. On top of everything, it was her birthday today. He considered scribbling a hasty note back, but the owl had already flown off in a huff and besides she wouldn’t have any time to read it before classes. He felt uncomfortable, and if he’d had more experience with the emotion, he would have recognized it as guilt, but as it was he thought he might just be hungry. He made a resolution to find a way to talk to her later in the day, but for now he’d have to suffer through History of Magic again. On the other hand, it was such a dull class that he’d have plenty of time to plot out a proper, well, not actually an apology, but something to cheer her up. The chocolate from France was in the trunk at the end of his bed, but he had another idea. If he could just nab one of the House-elves, he might be able to pull this off.


	18. Cake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The smallest things sometimes make the biggest impact.

Before he made his way to breakfast, where he should blessedly be on time for once, Draco stepped into a vacant classroom along the dungeon corridor leading from Slytherin’s common room. He wasn’t entirely sure if this would work at Hogwarts the same way it did at home, but it was at least worth trying. Taking a deep breath, he said very clearly to the empty room, “If one of the servants is present, reveal yourself.”

Immediately a soft pop announced the arrival of a tiny House-elf right in front of him wearing a clean bath towel. Draco smiled. At least some things were the same everywhere.

“How is we to be helping, Sir?” the elf asked.

“I want you to make up a birthday cake,” Draco ordered at once, assuming the usual tone of command he used with the group of House-elves at the manor. “Make the cake chocolate, but with white frosting and decorated with roses or buttercups or sparkles or purple unicorns or whatever it is girls like. And it needs to have ‘Happy Birthday Hermione’ written on it.”

“Yes, Sir. We is taking care of it. Where would Sir be wanting it?” the elf asked with a little bow.

“Have it brought to the top of the Astronomy Tower at, oh, 7:15 this evening,” he said, then added in an appropriately threatening tone nearly worthy of his father, “and mind you make it a nice one. If you misspell her name or something stupid like that, you’ll be in for it but good.”

“We is to be checking the school’s list of students’ names to make sure. She is a student, yes?” the elf asked, looking rather less terrified than the Malfoy elves usually did when presented with the possibility of grievous bodily harm. He felt a little disappointed.

“Yes, she is,” Draco said. “Oh, and add candles. Twelve of them, lit, slow-burning, and non-melting so they won’t spoil the frosting, of course.”

“Very good, Sir. We is doing as you ask. It is a pleasure to serve, Sir,” the elf said, then disappeared once again with another quiet pop.

There, he thought, continuing towards breakfast with a much better appetite than when he’d left his dormitory. That ought to smooth things over considerably. Granted, he was still more than a bit leery over whether the House-elves were going to spell her name correctly. He shuddered as the nightmarish possibility of a cake wishing a happy birthday to Herbert, Hepsibah, or possibly Ermine Minnie flashed in front of his eyes. Well, if anything like that occurred, he’d simply report the offending elf to the proper authorities and have it hung by its ankles for a few days. 

He had reached the Great Hall by now, and he was still early enough to be able to get a full serving of eggs and kippers with a cup of tea. Goyle and Crabbe came up to breakfast looking rather sleepy, but then they usually did at this time in the morning. Actually, now that he thought of it, they looked rather bleary most of the time.

“Sleep well, lads?” he asked as he spread a generous layer of butter on his toast.

Crabbe looked at Goyle, and they both shook their heads.

“Up too late,” Goyle said. 

“Yeah, that wasn’t exactly according to plan,” Draco said with a wince. “At any rate, we’ve got Binns this morning so you’ll have plenty of time to cadge a nap.”

Crabbe smiled at this, then heaped more porridge on his spoon and slurped it into his mouth. Draco noticed that he actually chewed it. Who chewed porridge? He had no idea why, but he found that oddly disturbing. 

Pansy, Blaise, and Theodore weren’t as unforgiving as they had been yesterday, but they were certainly anything but chatty. Even Millicent was rather frosty. It was a very uncomfortable feeling, being the object of dislike and anger rather than the center of adoration, and Draco suddenly found he didn’t have much of an appetite for his breakfast after all. He would simply have to find a way to even things with the rest of the House. The best way would have been to bring them a victory against Gryffindor in Quidditch with himself as Seeker, and that couldn’t be arranged for at least a year due to Dumbledore’s ridiculous rule, which he’d bent almost immediately for Potter. It really was aggravating. He tried to focus on that emotion rather than the unsettling feeling of knowing he had… not made a mistake, of course, but… miscalculated, perhaps, in the affair of the Rememberall. It certainly hadn’t ended how he would have liked: with Potter on the train back to the Muggles. A glance at the Gryffindor table showed he was still being lauded by all the others as their personal hero, the youngest Weasley boy obviously hanging on every word he spoke. Disgusting.

Suddenly, the mail arrived, and the shadows of the owls bringing parcels and letters dotted the tablecloths as they swooped to their owners. Persephone landed in front of Draco carrying what he was sure was a letter written on his mother’s silver-grey stationery, and he gave the bird his unfinished kippers as a treat. At least Persephone was still fond of him, he thought, as she daintily picked them apart, then gave his hand an affectionate peck before leaving for the owlery once again. He was just about to open the letter when he glanced over at the Gryffindor table and frowned at the scene in front of him.

Hermione was sitting alone in what had obviously become her customary place at the end of the table. That was depressing enough on her birthday, but he noted that she didn’t seem to have received any mail on top of it. Her parents hadn’t bothered to send her a present or at least a card if they really were too poor for such things? What was almost as disturbing was her expression of resignation. It was as though she were expecting just this to happen. 

Draco was pondering exactly how he would pitch the most glorious tantrum if his parents had ever forgotten his birthday when the students began to move towards their first class of the day. Not wanting to be late, he started towards History of Magic, but he looked over his shoulder once to be sure of what he’d seen. No one should look that sad on their birthday, he thought as he took in Hermione gathering her books together and slogging off alone down the corridor, Parvati and Lavender giving her a wide berth.

Draco spent Binns’s class (a lecture on the historical importance of Bowtruckles in Scandinavia) plotting. His parchment, on which he supposed he really should have taken notes on the dates of the Great Bowtruckle Rebellion of 1465 and the subsequent environmental impact of the glut of woodlice on the northern forests of Sweden, was instead covered in moving (though admittedly crude) diagrams of the broomshed near the Quidditch pitch, the Astronomy Tower, and a House-elf swinging from chains on its toes connected to the rafters in the Great Hall. He’d gotten a bit distracted, but he still thought he knew what he needed to do to make everything work just so. 

By the time they left Binns and walked over to Sprout’s greenhouse, Draco had concocted quite a plan. In fact, he was fairly certain it would do the Malfoy name proud. At any rate, despite the truly revolting tasks he needed to accomplish that day, namely removing weeds from a bed of Flutterby Bushes, which required him to scrub dirt from underneath his fingernails later, he was in a better mood once again. The rest of the Slytherins seemed a bit put off that someone who was supposed to be in disgrace seemed bothered so little by all he’d done to offend the House, but he decided that at the moment he didn’t care.

Instead of going directly back to the common room with the rest of the Slytherins to drop off his books and then on to lunch, Draco stayed behind, pretending to tie a loose shoelace and managing to drop out of line without Professor Sprout noticing. As soon as he was quite sure that she was gone, he darted off behind the rows of greenhouses and headed towards the Quidditch pitch. It was deserted at this time of day, which was exactly what he was counting on. This would all be so much easier if first years were allowed their own brooms, but the school rules didn’t say there was an issue with riding the Hogwarts brooms kept in the shed. Granted, he wasn’t certain that he was supposed to be taking them without the permission of Professor Hooch, but as she wasn’t about at the moment, he couldn’t really be held responsible for that, could he? At least that was the angle he was going to use if he got caught.

Very carefully, he crept to the door of the shed, ready for a large padlock, anti-burglary charms, perhaps even a guard creature of some kind, maybe a small dragon. What he found, however, was not at all what he expected. A sign on the doorknob read in large purple letters “School Brooms – Borrow as Needed, Return When Done.”

“Well, that was an anticlimactic,” he said, feeling stupid as he went inside and carefully selected two of the least battered brooms available. 

Granted, none of these third-rate contraptions was good enough for a Malfoy to settle his backside upon, but he supposed he had to make allowances. Still, he thought as he held the handles to the sunlight and checked for warping along the tail twigs, their not being world class racing brooms might be an advantage. They shouldn’t take off like a banshee at any rate. Then he remembered Neville’s accident and realized that he couldn’t really be sure of that either. Shrugging since it couldn’t be helped, he climbed on the slightly stouter broom, tucked the other under his arm, and kicked off from the ground, heading straight for the Astronomy Tower and landing with barely a noise on its stone floor. 

As he’d thought, the tower was completely deserted during daylight hours. He carefully placed the two brooms out of sight behind a set of turrets, looked about thoughtfully, and nodded at the location. Yes, he thought, this was going to work just fine. Absolutely nothing could go wrong. He was still young enough and foolish enough not to realize that was a terribly dangerous thing to think.

Draco ducked down the trap door to the spiral staircase that led to the Astronomy Tower, and by the time he reached the fifth floor corridor where it exited, he was a bit dizzy but still remarkably cheerful. He darted up the next tower to the owlery, and after waking Persephone from a sound sleep and getting a far less affectionate peck for his trouble than the one at breakfast, he took a quill and parchment from his bag and jotted a quick note.

_H,_

_Things didn’t exactly go as I planned last night, but there is a perfectly logical explanation for what happened. Meet me on the top of the Astronomy Tower at 6:30 tonight_

_D_

He had actually spent a good three minutes wondering whether to make the last sentence end in a full stop or a question mark. Making it a statement would have been his usual preference, automatically assuming that she would want to be there, but under the circumstances it smacked a bit too much of a command. A well-mannered wizard does not command a pure-blood young lady unless it is absolutely necessary, as his father had taught him. But the question mark seemed to suggest weakness, perhaps even begging. Persephone was giving him a very annoyed look by now, so he opted not to decide at all and simply let the sentence end with no punctuation. As soon as the note was bound to her leg, Persephone took off from the window.

Draco had the afternoon free, so he spent his time doing the homework Binns had assigned (two feet of parchment on the Bowtruckle/Hinkypunk Alliance of 1542) as well as lazily paging his way through the next chapter of the text for Sprout’s class. To his complete lack of surprise, it once again centered on dirt. So far as Draco was concerned, the only thing one needed to know about dirt was it was dirty. Beyond that was the realm of House-elves.

He was staring up at the canopy of his bed and beginning to doze a bit, feeling happier than he had in a while and fully confident that Hermione would understand completely once she heard what had really happened, when Persephone abruptly alighted next to his head and tapped him squarely between the eyes.

“Ow! Fine, fine, give me a moment,” he said blearily, sitting up.

The owl extended her leg, and he took the small bit of paper tied to her leg and read it.

_Drake,_

_I really do have quite a bit of homework, but I suppose I can be there._

_H_

Draco read the message at least three times through.

“That’s odd,” he asked after having carefully turned the paper over and moved his thumb to be certain that he hadn’t missed any of the message again. “She really intended to spend her birthday just doing homework? That’s… sad.”

Another unaccustomed sensation spread around his chest, almost like heartburn. He realized that it was very much like feeling that someone had done something horrid to him instead of her. He was so unfamiliar with the concept of sympathy that it took him a while to work out what he was feeling at all. He huffed loudly, then dismissed the feeling. Things were going to get much better for her soon.

Still, the note was rather brief, almost terse, and it nearly sounded like she had seriously considered choosing homework over his summons. Well, that was impossible, and of course she also used her nickname for him, which seemed friendly enough. Finally, he decided he was probably reading far too much into eighteen words, two of which were single letters, and started to get ready for the next bit of his plan.

By the time he was about to go up to dinner, he had emptied out his bookbag and replaced the usual parchments and texts with a few carefully chosen items. He slung the bag artfully over his shoulder, then went upstairs to his customary spot between Crabbe and Goyle. He barely noticed the food, which was adequately roasted leg of lamb, chewing automatically and keeping a watchful eye on the Gryffindor table as he listened with one ear while Crabbe explained how he had accidentally set his own robes on fire while trying to remove a stain from Potions.

“That class was days ago,” Draco said, still watching as the bushy-haired object of his attention ate completely alone.

“Yeah, but I didn’t notice it until now,” Crabbe said. “It only started eating through the fabric this morning. Do you think it shows much?”

“Uh huh,” Draco said. “That’s great. I’ll see you later.”

By the time Crabbe had squinted in response to what Draco had said, the other boy was already half-sprinting away from the table (though to his credit he was at least attempting to sprint with predatory grace). He didn’t slow his pace until he reached the stairs to the Astronomy Tower. Taking a breath and smoothing his hair, he proceeded to climb the stairs in less of a rush if for no other reason than not to get dizzy again.

Just as he reached the trap door, he heard another set of feet start up the stairway far below him. He looked down and just caught sight of the top of Hermione’s head rounding one of the turns, and he grinned. Quickly, he opened the door and added the items from his bookbag to the brooms hidden behind the turrets, then stepped back and leaned casually against the wall. When Hermione opened the door, he gave a half bow and smiled at her.

“Happy birthday, Mademoiselle d’Arc,” he said.

“You remembered?” she said, looking surprised.

“Obviously,” he replied, but it still unnerved him how little she seemed to expect anyone to pay attention to her. That had to stop. “Have you had a good birthday?”

“Well, fair, I suppose,” she said, and he noticed she didn’t look at him when she said it. 

“It’s about to get better,” he said firmly. “I’ve got a surprise or two up my sleeve, or behind the turret, as the case may be.”

Struting over to his hidden treasures, he produced the two broomsticks. Hermione gave a rather forced looking smile laced with a certain amount of panic. It wasn’t really the reaction he’d been going for.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s only me. We’ll just practice a bit, and you’ll be flying in no time.”

“And if I fall off and kill myself?” she blurted out suddenly.

“You won’t,” Draco said, looking at her, surprised that she’d even think it. “You’re already best in the school in practically everything, well, except for me of course. You’ll get the hang of it in no time at all.”

Hermione grimaced, but she gingerly took the handle of the broom he offered her, treating it like a poisonous snake that might bite her at any moment.

“I just really don’t like heights,” she said, shuddering. “I had a bad fall once when I was about five years old. I was just playing about with one of my cousins, and I ended up going backwards down a whole flight of stairs. I don’t know how I didn’t break my neck.”

“Magic, probably,” Draco said. “It happens to the best of us, self-preservation taking over. But I can see how that would be unnerving.”

Actually, the words terrifying, sickening, and sweat-inducing leaped to mind, but he thought it was probably better not to say those.

“All right then,” Hermione said, nodding with determination and looking at the broomstick with a decidedly clinical air, almost as though it were one of Sprout’s particularly nasty plants. “Let’s get this done.”

“You might actually enjoy it, you know,” Draco said with a laugh. “Okay, first, just relax. Remember that even though it can fly, it’s only a piece of wood with some fancy charms on it. You’re the one in charge because you’re the one telling it what to do.”

“I’m the boss,” Hermione said with slow determination.

“Precisely,” Draco said. “So what do you want that stick to do?”

Hermione looked at it uncertainly for a moment before she said, “Hover at an appropriate mounting height.”

The broom twitched, then vibrated as it floated to roughly the right height for Hermione to sit on it.

“There you go,” Draco said. “It wants to be told what to do. All you have to do is decide what it should be doing, tell it, and it shouldn’t give you trouble.”

Like a House-elf, Draco thought, but that was a whole other conversation.

“Fine,” Hermione said. “Now I suppose I should actually, well, sit on it, right?”

“That’s the general idea unless you want to just hang off of it by your fingernails. That actually worked fairly well for the Norwegian Seeker in the Quidditch World Cup a few years ago, but I don’t think I’d suggest it at this point,” Draco said, feigning seriousness.

Hermione snatched her hand back from the broom handle as though she was afraid of being burned, but almost immediately collected herself and reached out to grab it again. Carefully, she sat down, and smiled as she realized that nothing horrible was happening. Draco returned the smile, easily mounting his own broom.

“Might have to watch for splinters on these things,” he said wrinkling up his nose in disgust, “but I did try to pick the best of the lot. That’s not saying much, though. Think you’re up for a bit of ride?”

Hermione paused for a moment before saying, “Okay.” It was an infinitesimal pause, but enough that Draco could still tell she was nervous.

“Easy, then. Just push off a tiny bit with your toes, and the broom should take over your weight and stay put a few inches above the floor,” Draco said.

“And if I launch myself off like Neville did?” Hermione said in a rush.

“First, you are not Neville. I’ve no idea what he did, but I think you’ve got as much chance of pulling that stunt as of accidentally melting your wand, which I would not put past him, by the way. Second, I’m right here. If something bizarre happens, I promise you, I will help you. Okay?” Draco said.

“All right. I trust you,” she said, and he didn’t know why, but that made him happy.

“On three then,” he said. “One, two . . .”

And on three she did indeed push off, just barely, and lo and behold, the broom behaved as a perfect gentleman and rested a few inches above the ground, steady as a rock.

“Well done!” he said. “Very good! Now try leaning back down to land again.”

It worked exactly as planned, and Hermione’s toes skimmed the stone pavement of the tower’s roof, then rested fully once more.

“See? Not hard at all,” Draco said. “You’ll have this down in a blink.”

“Well, not quite a blink,” Hermione said, then setting her jaw determinedly, added, “but I will.”

She had spirit, this one, he thought with a grin.

“Care to try actually flying a bit?” he said. “It’s a lot more fun than just picking your toes up and putting them back down again.”

She considered for a moment, squinting at the darkening sky and obviously making some sort of mental calculations as she tipped her head to one side in what he realized was a characteristic gesture.

“Maybe,” she said, “but I think I’d rather see how it’s done first before I try it entirely on my own. Being able to model how to handle a broom by watching someone who knows what he’s doing might be the most useful course of action. Would you show me?”

“Okay,” he said, hopping on the handle with practiced ease even if it wasn’t his own broomstick. Then, struck with an idea, he inched forward along the handle, then looked over his shoulder at her. “Well? Getting on or not?”

“Oh!” she said, obviously surprised. “I hadn’t thought of, well…”

“The best way to see is to be as close as possible to the action,” he said. 

“I suppose so,” she said, still sounding rather uncertain. “I mean, well, you won’t go too high or fast, right?”

“Of course not,” he said, but there might have been a bit of a gleam in his eyes, and it’s just possible that his fingers may have been crossed. “Just climb on and grab hold.”

With a deep breath, Hermione settled herself carefully behind him on the broomstick, grabbing him rather tighter about the waist than was entirely comfortable for breathing, and he was relatively sure she had her face thrust into the back of his shoulders with both eyes shut.

“Okay, ready,” she said in a voice that sounded as though it was muffled in the back of his robes.

He couldn’t suppress a grin as he did, very carefully, hover over the pavement by a few inches and start to drift slowly to the right at barely a snail’s pace.

“How high are we?” came the same muffled voice.

“Take a peek and see,” he said, and he felt her shift slightly.

“That’s not bad at all!” Hermione said, sounding much clearer. “I think I can handle this well enough.”

“Good,” Draco said, and with a simple switch of direction, he glided over the parapet on the end of the Astronomy Tower so they were suspended at a truly dizzying height. “Now we get to the fun!”

There was a small wheezing sound in back of him, but the important bit was she hadn’t let go. In fact he was rather amazed by the strength of her grip and almost looked over his shoulder to see whether Hagrid had replaced her.

“Oh, fine! Just go for it!” she yelled, right in his ear actually, and he laughed delightedly as he started to circle the tower lower and lower in a dizzying spiral, then sped off across the grounds in the sunset.

It was a perfect evening for a flight. The sky was clear, the warm air of the day was carrying the promise of the nip of autumn in it, and owls were beginning to awaken and take flight, joining them as Draco headed towards the lake. He dipped lower, almost skimming the water with their shoes but keeping them both entirely dry. He zigged and zagged, following the shoreline at a distance and watching their reflection in the dark water below. Hermione was maybe, perhaps, starting to relax a tiny bit, though that grip was still remarkably impressive. The sun faded slowly away, and a small number of fireflies, still in residence from the summer months, flickered over the lake and darted between the trunks of the Forbidden Forest. At least he thought they were fireflies. They might be fairies, now that he thought of it. 

“Better?” he asked over his shoulder.

“I think so,” she said. “I’m still not entirely comfortable on this thing, but it’s not as horrid as I thought it would be. It’s actually rather nice, really.”

“See? Not a thing to worry about. You’ll do fine,” he said, taking them back towards the Astronomy Tower. While it was technically out of bounds except for classes, he assumed that was for ordinary people. They weren’t breaking curfew at any rate, and by now the House-elf should have delivered the cake. Yes, he saw with a grin, there was a soft glow coming from one spot on the tower, and he landed next to what even he had to admit was a very pretty birthday cake topped with roses and lit candles.

“Oh!” Hermione said, dismounting the broom rather awkwardly but looking nearly giddy at the sight of the cake. “Drake, it’s lovely!”

“Yes, it is,” he said approvingly as he retrieved his bookbag and took a wrapped parcel out from it. “Also, there’s this. Happy birthday.”

She looked completely stunned as she took the package and unwrapped it, revealing the box of chocolates from his favorite French chocolatier, Oiseau de Calais. It was quite a nice box, nothing enormous, but it was their signature pale lavender octagon filled with crèmes, nougats, and caramels. Draco was hoping that she would offer him at least a couple of pieces; flying always made him hungry. He was about to say something to the effect that it was one of the best wizarding chocolate houses in the world when he noticed Hermione was biting her lip and looking like she might be, quite terrifyingly, about to cry.

“What? Oh Merlin, you aren’t allergic to chocolate are you?!” he said.

“No,” she said, smiling. “No, not at all, I love chocolate. It’s just, thank you. I really wasn’t expecting anything for my birthday this year, and this is perfect.”

Then she gave him a kiss on the cheek. He supposed that wasn’t entirely acceptable in light of the fact he was betrothed to Pansy, but he didn’t care at the moment. That was ages away, and anyway, Hermione was his friend, that’s all. 

“I suppose we’d better tuck in before the candles melt away,” Hermione said.

“Oh, they’re non-dripping,” Draco said. “At least they’d better be. That’s what I requested. But you need to make your wish first, of course.”

“Give me a moment to let me think,” Hermione said, grinning. 

Draco was amused to see her knitting her eyebrows together, concentrating, at one point obviously choosing between two options, until finally she leaned forward and blew. The candles all went out at once, and he hooted in appreciation.

“First slice for the birthday girl,” he said, wielding the knife the elf had left and cutting a piece for her, being sure to put a particularly perfect rose on top, but just as she was about to take it, he pulled it back and said, “and you’ll get it just as soon as you tell me what you wished for.”

“But then it won’t come true!” she said reproachfully. 

“Balderdash,” he said. “That’s nothing but a load of rubbishy superstition. Besides, I want to know!”

“Well, I’m not telling,” Hermione said primly as she took the plate out of his hand. “I wished for a pony when I turned six and told my cousin Muriel, and I never did get one, so there.”

“So not a pony then,” Draco said.

“No, not a pony,” Hermione said, taking a bite of her cake and closing her eyes in bliss. “Oh, whoever made this did a perfect job of it.”

Draco nodded in satisfaction. Obviously his threats had worked, and after taking a bite himself, he was convinced that the Hogwarts elves might even surpass Dobby in the kitchen. The cake was the most wonderful one he’d ever tasted. It was one of those moments of pure, simple bliss. Everything had gone precisely as he’d planned, and as the stars popped out one by one in the fully darkened sky, he couldn’t recall a time when he had been happier. He had a friend and chocolate cake. Life was perfect.

“I’m so glad that wizards wish on birthday candles, too,” Hermione said as she licked frosting off her fork. “That’s always been my favorite part of birthdays.”

“I’d wager you’d change the ranking if you’d got that pony,” Draco said, then paused, feeling strangely cold. “What do you mean ‘wizards wish on birthday candles, too’?”

“Well, I wasn’t sure,” Hermione said. “So much is different here. I’m still learning what the Muggle world and the wizarding world have in common and what they don’t. It’s really all quite fascinating.”

“But… why would you know about Muggles?” Draco asked. He felt sick. This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t.

“Because that’s what my parents are,” Hermione said. “Until I got the letter from Hogwarts, I’d no idea about magic or any of the rest of it. I only knew I could do some strange things that puzzled Mum and Dad. I think I made it stop raining once when I wanted to go to the park when I was about five years old, and then Mum said that when I was a toddler, if we were visiting my Gran and she wanted to leave but I wanted to stay, her car keys would inexplicably disappear. I suppose that was rather naughty of me.”

“Your parents are Muggles,” Draco said quietly.

“Yes,” Hermione said, looking up from her cake and peering at him quizzically. “Is something wrong? You look odd. You aren’t sick, are you? Is it the cake? It tastes fine to me.”

“No,” Draco said. “No, I’m not sick.”

The world was crashing around him, and he wasn’t sure what to do about it. A loud roaring echoed in his ears, and he remembered every horrible story about Mudbloods, every joke, every warning from his parents about the importance of purity and freedom from contamination from lesser witches and wizards who were pretenders or worse. He had gotten to his feet without realizing it, and his hands were shaking uncontrollably.

“What is it?” Hermione said, her face frightened. “There _is_ something wrong.”

“You,” he said, clenching his hands into fists in an effort to make them stop quivering, and his voice dropped. “It’s you.”

Hermione's mouth opened slightly, speechless, which some part of his brain told him was quite the accomplishment.

“You’re a liar,” he finally said, his words cold. “You’re a stinking, no-good liar.”

“Drake,” Hermione said, her eyes wide, “I’ve never once ever lied to you!”

“Yes, you have!” and the words came out almost as a scream. “How dare you! How dare you pretend that you’re real when you’re nothing but a filthy Muggle-born! This whole time you’ve been laughing at me behind my back, thinking you’re putting one over on your betters, or maybe trying to climb up the social ladder and make friends with someone who could give you a bit of respectability, you—you—Mudblood!”

“What are you—“ Hermione stared at him. “I don’t even know what that word means!”

“Then look it up in one of your precious books!” he yelled, still shaking.

“Draco, it shouldn’t matter who my parents are or that I was raised in the Muggle world. I don’t know what you think I’m doing, but I really am your friend,” she said, reaching out to touch his arm, but he pulled away as though she had burned him. “I’m not pretending anything! You’re… you’re the only friend I have here.”

“Yeah?” he said, screwing his face into a twisted, cutting sneer. “Well, you’ve got one less than that now!”

He saw tears well up in her eyes as though he had struck her, but in an instant he was already gone, back through the doors and down the stairs, his legs taking him faster and faster until the sound of his footsteps blurred into a rapid staccato. He didn’t care about the broomsticks or the cake or Filch. All he wanted was to get as far away from her as he could. He reached the dungeons and the Slytherin common room faster than he thought possible. Millicent Bulstrode and Pansy were engaged in a particularly fierce battle of Exploding Snap that had practically everyone goggling at the size of their castle, which now consisted of no less than twenty-three decks of cards. That meant the first-year dormitory was empty.

Draco Malfoy was a pure-blood wizard. From birth, he had been taught not merely to hate Mudbloods but to despise and mock their existence, to believe that they were the most awful offense to his lineage that he could imagine. They were criminal, deranged, abnormal, perverse, an offense to nature. Everyone he had ever cared about or admired had told him that again and again. Hermione Granger, Mudblood, was therefore beneath his notice and unfit for decent company, certainly not his own. 

But that night, whatever he had been told, whatever he had been raised to believe, Draco Malfoy, pure-blood, threw himself on his bed, closed the curtains around him, and cried himself to sleep, sobs shuddering through his body as he thought his heart would break in two.


	19. Cold Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco tries to understand what happened the night before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For general notes, see chapter one. For an ongoing series of apologies that I turn out chapters of this more slowly than Pluto completes its solar orbit, see various author notes.

Draco didn’t really know when or if he even woke up the next morning. It felt like he hadn’t slept at all, but he guessed he must have dozed off eventually. The drapes around his bed were closed tightly, making it night inside and keeping him from the indignity of being seen in the state he was in. He knew he must look a fright, and he didn’t want to deal with questions or curious observers. Right now, all he wanted was to lie there in the dark and pretend that last night had been a horrible dream. But he knew it wasn’t. He felt too awful for it to have been just a nightmare.

Eventually, he heard movement in the room. One by one his roommates left until only he and one other person were left. He wondered who the other occupant was and hoped it wasn’t anyone nosy enough to snoop into his business. Unfortunately, luck wasn’t quite on his side.

“Draco?” asked Theodore. “Are you in there?”

“Yes,” he replied quickly, hoping to keep him from pulling back the curtains. “I’ve come down with the most dreadful cold. I think I’ll be staying in today.”

“Oh,” Nott said, and Draco thought from his tone he suspected a bit more than he’d said. “Are you hungry at all?”

“No,” he said, realizing for the first time it was true.

“You really must be sick,” Nott replied. “Well, feel better.”

Retreating footsteps and a door shutting let Draco know he was finally alone. He really did feel sick. The dim light in the dormitory felt cold and clammy, and he loathed the awful thought of having to see Hermione that day, or ever again for that matter. A flutter of motion drew his eye toward the window, and Persephone swooped in, nothing attached to her leg. He assumed she must just be looking for treats, but to his surprise, she landed on his night table and peered at him with what looked like concern.

“Hello,” he said, hating the rasp in his voice.

Persephone hooted back quietly, then, surprisingly, huddled down near his pillow and shut her eyes, apparently asleep. He found he was glad of the company, and she tolerated him stroking her head.

Draco considered his options. He couldn’t stay in this room forever, of course, but he also couldn’t risk falling apart if he happened upon his so-called former friend at any moment. The betrayal he felt, the cutting certainty that she had played him for a fool for weeks and her friendship, the first he’d ever made for himself, had been the most social disastrous thing he could possibly have done, all of it was overwhelming.

“I want to go home,” Draco said softly to Persephone. “I just want to go home.”

Persephone responded by opening her eyes and nipping his fingers more sharply than affection might warrant, but the minor pain did bring him around to his senses a bit more.

“I know I can’t,” he said. “It doesn’t change that I’d like to, but it’s not an answer. Father would be humiliated, and Mother would never be able to bear the shame of a Hogwarts dropout. Also, I’d probably just wind up in Durmstrang. I can’t stand the thought of that much snow.”

Persephone, apparently pleased with his reasoning, blinked at him rather than chewing on his fingers any further.

Then a horrible thought occurred to Draco. What if his mother and father found out he’d accidentally befriended a Mudblood? There wouldn’t be any question of deciding to go home; they would pull him out of the school faster than a Niffler looking for Galleons. He ran a quick list through his mind of everyone who might possibly know about his error: Crabbe, Goyle, Peeves, the House-elf who had made the cake… That seemed to be all. He hadn’t mentioned Hermione to Nott or Zabini or any of the other Slytherins, nor any of the teachers. They hadn’t been particularly demonstrative of their friendship publicly, so there was that. A good House-elf wouldn’t blabber, and he had enough power over Peeves to keep his gob well stopped. Crabbe and Goyle, though, were another matter. Thankfully, neither of them seemed too quick. All he needed to do was come up with an adequate cover story.

Well, if she’d been trying to humiliate him, two could play that game. Draco would simply lie to them, saying he’d known all along she was a Mudblood (as any sane pure-blood should have realized) and that he had been the one fooling her into thinking they were friends so that he could have the fun of hurting her. Perfect, he thought. He could carry that off.

That left only Hermione herself. She might tell tales to everyone if the mood struck her, he supposed, so all he had to do was make sure everyone knew exactly how much he loathed her. That would make anything she might say seem like complete idiocy and cover his blunder completely, meaning no one would know the truth. 

Well, except for himself. He couldn’t undo his own memories. All he could do was make sure he never made another mistake like this one again.

But something was bothering him. Just how much had Hermione lied to him? Even this early in their first year she was already seen as one of the cleverest students, but from everything he knew that simply couldn’t be possible. Mudbloods were all dunderheaded fools with no true talent and no real intelligence. Was she cheating in all her courses? He thought back to his conversation with Snape who had informed him of the realities of Hogwarts and that things weren’t quite as his parents had always told him, or rather than things had been exaggerated. 

Draco wasn’t sure who was telling the truth anymore, and it made him angry. The change shifted the sickly, sad feeling out of his gut and switched it for a low burning around his heart. He didn’t like being confused. His parents and all their peers couldn’t possibly all be lying to him. They wouldn’t. It had to be Hermione who was the one who had tricked him.

Still, he’d always been told Mudbloods had no higher feelings, no ability to love or be hurt in the same true, deep way that real witches and wizards could, but the look on her face when he’d left had certainly seemed like real pain. In fact, it had been agonizing.

Well, good, he thought. If he was hurting, why shouldn’t she hurt at least as much? An idea struck him, and he felt a sneer curl his lips. Persephone drew back a little as though shocked by the malice of his expression. 

“Don’t worry. I’ve got a new goal,” he said, fishing an owl treat from the drawer of his nightstand and feeding one to the rather wary bird. “All I need to do is focus on making her as miserable as possible and I won’t remember the rest of it. Maybe she’ll even be so upset that she’ll leave Hogwarts so I won’t have to deal with her again. That would be best for everyone concerned, a sort of public service. I’m sure Father and Mother would approve.”

Persephone chewed the treat, but it certainly looked as though she were rolling her eyes at him as well.

“You know what? I’m hungry too,” he said, snapping the drawer shut. “I think I’ll see if there’s anything left for breakfast, and if there isn’t, I’ll bully the House-elves into getting me something.”

He quickly put on a fresh robe, combed his hair into its usual sleek perfection, brushed his teeth to rid his mouth of the last traces of the taste of buttercream frosting, and strode out the dormitory door, certain of his path and completely ignorant that if he really didn’t care the least bit about Hermione, he wouldn’t have made her his newest objective. As he walked past the common room fireplace, he glanced again at the words carved deeply into the mantle.

“’Trust no one,’” he read aloud, then sniffed with what he hoped was an air of world-weary savoir-faire. “Excellent advice.”

He left for the Great Hall with a feeling of ice around his heart, and he welcomed its numbing effect. On the other side of the castle, high in Gryffindor Tower, Hermione, unable to comfort herself with even her most favorite books, shuddered as though a chill winter wind had blown through the window on the calm autumn day.


	20. Knocking on the Wrong Doors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco's first year continues, and so does his loathing of Hermione. Mostly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very small bit of dialogue in this section has been taken from chapter 10 of the first book.

The rest of September passed by and most of October followed it without much of anything happening. Draco would have liked to think it would speed along, but truthfully it moved slowly for him. 

Potter had somehow managed to become the Gryffindor Seeker and gotten a really first rate broom into the bargain even though first years weren’t allowed them. The blatant favoritism was so obvious Draco nearly choked on it. The Slytherins were all furious, and Draco spent a good deal of time fantasizing about how things would be next year when he was on his own house team and could level the competition himself.

Crabbe and Goyle (no matter how he tried, Draco couldn’t call them Vincent and Gregory and have it seem natural) were still his nearly constant companions. The problem was they were also horribly dull. They never read anything, they napped through class whenever possible, and their conversational skills were limited to saying various people were ugly, stupid, or in a few cases both ugly and stupid. He sometimes thought his mind was going to liquefy and run out of his ears from sheer boredom.

Zabini was a bit better, but he rarely deigned to speak to anyone, preferring to spend his time either practicing spells in the common room or talking with Theodore Nott, who seemed to be his best friend. Nott was something of an enigma to Draco. He was pure-blood, no doubt, and his parents would have deemed a friendship with either him or Zabini entirely acceptable, but for some reason Draco couldn’t place, they simply didn’t hit it off. 

Pansy was, well, Pansy. She was pretty, somewhat delicately flirtatious, and seemed to be fascinated by eye shadow, perfume, and lipstick, her usual topics of conversation. As Draco had only the most passing interest in any of these, he decided to simply admire his apparent future wife from afar and spend blessedly little time actually talking to her, a situation that, on further reflection, was quite common among his parents’ married friends. So perhaps that was normal.

Classes were at least a distraction, and Draco found himself doing well in most of them. History of Magic was deadly dull, and he didn’t like Herbology with its focus on puttering about in the dirt or Defense Against the Dark Arts with Quirrell stammering his way through lessons that seemed ludicrously obvious and never taught them anything useful. One entire class had been spent informing them that they shouldn’t leave home without their wands, and another explained that Manticores were not for riding. Charms and Transfiguration more than made up for the others, though, and in spite of Flitwick and McGonagall being in charge of them, Draco grudgingly had to admit he was learning a lot. More than that, he was one of the very best at Potions, and not just because his godfather was the professor. There was something about the process of putting the different bits and pieces together in the right order that felt natural to him. This seemed to be a source of distant but distinct pride to Snape, who sometimes would give him a rare ghost of a smile for his best concoctions.

The only unpleasant thing about Potions was Hermione. Gryffindor and Slytherin shared the class, just as they did Herbology. However, it was relatively easy to avoid looking at her in Herbology since so much time was spent staring at whatever inane potted plant Sprout had chosen to slap in front of each of them that day. The sheer amount of vegetation meant blocking his view of her was very easy. Potions, however, had no conveniently enormous Flutterby Bushes and required more moving around, getting supplies from cupboards or running out of the way of whatever Longbottom had blown up, melted, or imbued with accidental life that particular day. Unless Draco stared into his cauldron very intently, it was impossible to miss Hermione head only a table or two away.

He hated her.

He reminded himself every day how much he hated her, and he made certain everyone else knew it as well. Still, if she really was cheating her way through classes, she was brilliant at it, which in itself made no sense since a Mudblood shouldn’t have been able to be brilliant at anything. As there was no way to bully her about her stupidity or her bad marks, he took to insulting her unfortunately awkward looks whenever possible, taking a cue from Parvati and Lavender’s earlier cruelty that he had previously loathed and happily punished. 

He had never once gotten Hermione to cry, though. Her chin would go up and the muscles in her jaw would clench, and once or twice after a particularly slashing insult he thought he’d seen her eyes go too bright, but she had never actually cried. He should regard that as a challenge, he told himself, but one for a later date when he could savor it more. Some other time. Not now. And if she learned her place and simply left Hogwarts as any decent Mudblood should, he might even allow “not now” to turn into “not ever.” 

Finally, Halloween arrived. Even Draco was impressed by the massive size of the pumpkins in the Great Hall. He’d always especially liked Halloween for as long as he could remember. His parents were in the habit of throwing a gala ball every year on the day, and though he was still too young to attend, regardless of how many tantrums he had thrown, he had been permitted to peer between the balusters from the landing and watch the important people arrive. They made a stunning show of silks and velvets and dragon hide, all of them surrounded by an aura of power. After everyone had entered the mansion, one of the house-elves escorted him back to his bedroom, but he could still hear the music from the small orchestra Father would hire to play as they danced. He’d already had lessons in most of the more intricate dances practically since he could walk, and while he wasn’t especially fond of mincing about in time to the music, he still thought it would be great fun to join the rest of the grown wizards someday for the party.

This was the first year he would miss the Malfoy Halloween Ball, but he was more than happy to trade it for the feast in the Great Hall that evening. He’d heard rumors about how wonderful it was supposed to be, and he was anxious to see if it was going to live up to its reputation. So, it seemed, was everyone else. As he left History of Magic that day, the corridors were filled with students who seemed much happier than usual, laughter ringing against the stone walls and excited chatter from all corners.

Perhaps that’s why what happened next stood out so clearly. In the midst of everything, Hermione looked miserable. Draco certainly hadn’t been looking for Hermione in the throng of black robes, had most definitely not remembered that Gryffindors had Charms at this time, though he supposed he might have accidentally memorized their schedule, purely for the purpose of terrorizing his least favorite Mudblood. He’d just been trying to come up with something particularly horrid to say, but someone beat him to it.

“She must have noticed she’s got no friends,” he heard the Weasel say loudly enough that half the school must have heard him.

It was obvious who the “she” was. Hermione’s eyes darted from Draco to Weasley and Potter, then back again for a split second, and their eyes locked. He was momentarily dumb-struck by the look of sheer pain there, and he was equally certain that his own expression slipped for a moment into something less than the pure hatred he was using to cover his own disillusionment and anger and, if he allowed himself to admit it, confusion. Finally, what he’d been waiting for happened. She broke. He caught a glimpse of tears coming from her eyes as she hugged her book bag closer to her and ran down the corridor.

Weasley and Potter had both noticed as well, and his immediate instinct was to curse them, but he managed to hold himself back. They were only doing what he himself had been doing for weeks: making her life miserable. He should thank them for it. For once they were on the same side in something.

He tried to tell himself it was his distaste at agreeing with the pair of them about anything that made him feel strangely sickened. They walked past him, exchanging looks of deep loathing, but Draco barely saw them. His eyes were still following where the wildly curly hair had swept around the corner and out of sight. 

He could, he thought, go that way. 

But he didn’t. He let himself be pulled along with the current of students going the opposite direction. He was sure his parents would approve. But somehow, the holiday cheer was separate from him now, and he had the uncomfortable feeling of being on the outside of everything rather than part of it for most of the rest of the day.

His bad mood began to dispel somewhat when the feast was ready to start. The house-elves at Hogwarts, he was happy to say, were extremely good cooks, and the roast beef and potatoes and pies and all the other dishes piled high before them were almost ridiculously delicious. Crabbe and Goyle had no complaints either, and the entire Slytherin table was in high spirits. Even Millicent looked positively happy as she sat beside Pansy and ate steak and kidney pie. For once, the high reputation of something hadn’t proven to be a disappointment. Draco clinked a flagon with Nott and took a deep drink of hot chocolate, but as he looked over the rim of the pewter cup, his eyes automatically noted one empty spot at Gryffindor’s table.

Good, he told himself. Now maybe she really would leave and he could have some peace. She’d probably be happier back with her own kind. Maybe, perhaps, it would be for the best on all sides, not that he was supposed to care about that.

Somehow the hot chocolate wasn’t quite as good as it had been a moment ago.

Crabbe had said something to him, and Draco had no idea what it was. He turned to ask him to repeat it, blaming it on all the hubbub in the Hall, when suddenly Quirrell came running at top speed from the door and towards the staff table. Everyone turned to watch, silence suddenly falling.

“Troll! Troll – in the dungeons!” he screamed, his voice several octaves too high, then added almost as an after-thought, “Thought you ought to know.”

Then Quirrell, the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher who was supposed to be teaching them all how to defend themselves against the very worst possible scenarios, who had faced horrors beyond imagining, passed out from terror.

There was a single beat of stunned disbelief before the Great Hall erupted in screams, including one Draco was surprised to hear coming from his own mouth. He had more than a little phobia about trolls. Actually, it was impossible for anything about trolls to be little.

Dumbledore set off a loud firework from his wand, and the whole hall quieted down again immediately. The next thing Draco knew, he and the rest of the students were being sent back to their dormitories, guarded by prefects, as the teachers went to deal with the extremely unwelcome visitor. However, he couldn’t help noticing that the troll had last been seen in the dungeons, and the Slytherin common room was, well, right next to the dungeons. Everyone else was completely ignoring that fact as well.

“Is it my imagination or wouldn’t we be better off staying in the Great Hall with the door locked?” Draco said to Zabini, who considered this for a second before nodding his head. Pansy, who had been halfway to the door, heard them and turned back around.

“Good point,” Nott said, then waved over their current Head Boy, Ignotus Carrow.

“Why aren’t you moving?” Carrow, a very large boy, said with a slight threat in his voice.

“Because they’re sending us right into the path of the troll,” Draco pointed out. 

Carrow frowned, then nodded and said, “I’ll ask Snape if we can just stay here.”

Unfortunately, Snape had disappeared so quickly no one had seen what direction he’d gone. He had a rather annoying habit of doing that, Draco thought, mostly annoying because he himself had not yet been able to master that trick, and it was, he had to admit, pretty cool.

He mentally kicked himself for using Muggle slang even in his own head as he scanned the rest of the quickly emptying hall for any teacher at all. One he’d never met approached the Slytherin table.

“Why are you still here?” she asked, but it didn’t sound like she was angry, only concerned.

“If the troll is in the dungeons, why are we supposed to head that way, Professor?” Draco said, and Marcus Flint gave him a look of disgust for some reason.

“Quite right and well noticed. Ten points to Slytherin,” she said, and while Draco smiled at the reward, many of the other Slytherins still looked more put out than anything else. “However, the Great Hall wouldn’t be the best place for you. Most likely, given the troll’s height, the professors will try to lure it here to keep it contained until Hagrid can remove it. I think it would be better if you evacuated to the library. Carrow, would you please see that they get there safely and bolt the door once everyone is in? I’ll inform the Headmaster of your change in location.”

“Right,” Carrow said, sounding surprisingly surly to a teacher. “Come on, you heard her. Library it is.”

“What’s everyone so fussed about?” Draco asked Nott as they made their way out of the Great Hall and up the stairs.

“That was Professor Burbage,” Nott said, nodding at her retreating back. “She teaches Muggle Studies.”

“Oh,” Draco said, embarrassed. His parents had been petitioning the school for years to have that class removed as unfit for wizarding study. In fact, they’d used the textbook as kindling in their annual Yule bonfire as least twice. “Right.”

“It’s not like you could have known,” Pansy said consolingly. “No one takes her class until third year anyway.”

“Yeah, why would I have bothered finding out what the old bat looks like? It’s not like I’m planning on taking her stupid class,” Draco said rather loudly, trying to turn his error into a point in his favor. “Who cares?”

Even if Burbage had seemed rather a decent sort, really. He wondered if she only studied Muggles or if she was a Mudblood herself. Until a few months ago he would have assumed her ability to speak in complete sentences made the answer obvious, but he wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

Carrow, wand drawn, led them up the main stairway and along the corridor that led to the library. Draco didn’t like to admit to being anything less than perfectly calm, but the situation was unnerving him. No one else seemed particularly happy about it either. Pansy was handling the stress by babbling along at a mile a minute with three of her friends, mostly about how horrid it was they were heading to the library when there were so many other more interesting places they could have gone for shelter. He’d nearly forgotten her dislike of any and all books, and that’s when he suddenly remembered.

“Pansy, do you still have that copy of _Leaves on the Tree of Perfection_?” Draco asked.

“What? Oh!” she said, blushing a deep pink. “I nearly forgot. I’ve had it in my bag for two weeks now. I’ll give it to you once we’re in the library.”

Draco noticed her entirely appropriate lack of apology and nodded gravely to show his acceptance of her returning it. There really was no point in looking at it now, though. He already knew the most important name that would be missing, but perhaps, he reasoned, there might be other missteps he could avoid in the future if he at least glanced at the thing.

The brief conversation had managed to distract him from the shadows that suddenly seemed to populate every corner of the castle, the weirdly amplified sound of their footfalls, even their own shadows that stretched eerily across the walls and flickered in the torch light. Draco had never run into a troll personally, but the thought of a gigantic, smelly, stupid, completely destructive creature, most likely with a very large club, roaming around what was now his home was giving him the collywobbles. At least they were all in a pack and going somewhere safe. He would have hated to be alone in this.

And that’s when he suddenly felt his gut hit with the realization that Hermione had not been in the Great Hall, had not heard Dumbledore’s instructions, and was most likely alone somewhere, completely miserable and unaware of the danger she was in.

“Oh, Merlin,” he moaned quietly.

“What?” Crabbe asked.

“Just stubbed my toe,” Draco invented quickly. “Hurts like a bloody dragon burn.”

Crabbe nodded sympathetically and lumbered on, as did the rest of Draco’s year as he slowly fell towards the back of the line. He wanted Hermione out of Hogwarts, obliterated from his memory, and possibly humiliated if possible.

He did not, however, want her dead.

If she ran into a troll alone, that was very likely to happen, especially as she was only a first year Mudblood and couldn’t be expected to actually be very good at spells, even with what she’d managed to do in classes. He’d nearly convinced himself that she was a remarkably good cheat, and now, for reasons he didn’t choose to think about, he suddenly hoped that every bit of what he’d seen her accomplish in the last few weeks had been real. If the troll got to her first, she was going to need all the help she could muster.

Draco didn’t really make the decision to try to find Hermione, at least not consciously. He knew there weren’t any teachers around, that Carrow and any of the other older Slytherin students wouldn’t bother to help Hermione, and that her total lack of friends, as Weasley had pointed out, meant probably no one other than himself had noticed her absence. The only problem was he had no idea where she would be.

“Think like a girl,” he told himself as he carefully slipped out of line entirely and concealed himself in a particularly dark shadow behind a statue of Belzinda Wickerweed, a rather plump witch had first captured the Giant Squid, or so the label on wall next to her claimed. “Where would a girl who’s upset go to have a good bawl?”

His first thought was her bedroom, but with Parvati and Lavender as roommates, he doubted she’d go there. The greenhouses? No, Sprout had the keys to those. Possibly the library, but he doubted from what he’d seen of Pince that she’d put up with a blubbering girl in there for hours. Draco found himself racking his brains, and the panic he was feeling was no joke. 

“Bathroom,” he suddenly said out loud, but the corridor was blessedly empty now. “It’s the only spot left, isn’t it?”

But which one? There were dozens, and it wasn’t as though he was familiar with the location of all the girls’ bathrooms in the school. He wasn’t even sure if he knew where a single one was. Well, he was going to learn.

He raced over the stone floors as silently as he could, his black robes keeping him fairly well concealed. A thunderstorm had begun outside, and when flashes of lightning split the sky, the huge windows filled with momentary light, illuminating the castle almost too brightly. The troll could be anywhere. So could the girls’ bathrooms. His mother would faint if she knew what he was doing, he quickly thought, but he stuffed the idea into the back of his head to deal with later.

Finally, just across the way from one of the boys’ bathrooms, he saw a door marked “Girls’ Toilet.” He put his hand on the knob and was about to turn it when he realized what he was doing. He couldn’t just go in there. It was forbidden territory. Instead, he looked up and down the corridor to be sure he was alone, then pounded on the door.

“Granger!” he yelled. “Are you in there, you bushy-headed Mudblood?”

Nothing. Then again, he thought, what had he expected with that particular tactic? Thinking quickly, he came up with a lie.

“McGonagall’s downstairs looking for you in the Great Hall, and she made me try to find you or Slytherin is losing 20 poxy points! You’d better get out of there now or she’ll have your hide, not that I care!” he said, trying to sound annoyed rather than terrified.

He waited half a minute, and when she didn’t appear, he decided she couldn’t be in this one. If he was right and every boys’ bathroom had a corresponding girls’ one, that meant he only had, oh Merlin, ten more to go on this floor alone.

He moved on, repeating the performance at each of the next five bathrooms without the slightest sign of Hermione. He had just rounded a corner when he immediately ducked back from the direction he had come and peered warily into the darkness. The next bathroom’s door had been torn off its hinges, and an absolutely repulsive stench filled the hallway. McGonagall, Quirrell, and Snape were silhouetted against the light from the doorframe, and just past them, lying on the floor, he could see two enormous, ugly feet that had to belong to a troll. In the stillness, Draco could hear McGonagall speaking in one of her sternest tones.

“Miss Granger, five points will be taken from Gryffindor for this,” she said.

Draco reasoned that Hermione at least still had to be alive. McGonagall wouldn’t be deducting points from a corpse. The troll was under control, and he could leave. Just as he was about to go, he heard McGonagall add, “And you, Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, have each earned five points for Gryffindor.”

Draco stood stock still. Potter? Weasley? They were the ones who stopped the troll? He’d assumed it must have been the teachers. Had those idiots been trying to help Hermione or had it all been another one of their attempts at seeking yet more glory?

“That was supposed to be me,” Draco growled quietly. “Not them. I took all the risks. Aside from knocking out the troll, but that’s beside the point.”

He also realized he really needed to stop talking to himself. As he watched the three students leave, he slinked back down the corridor, taking a shorter route to the library now that there was no need to try to avoid a rogue troll. He felt very uncomfortable, wondering exactly why he had felt the need to try to warn someone so much beneath him. He couldn’t come up with a good excuse for why he’d risked his own neck for a Mudblood. At least it had come to nothing and he hadn’t needed to actually save her.

The nagging disappointment he felt over that was equally uncomfortable, so he decided to completely ignore it.

“The troll’s taken care of,” he called out the moment he stepped into the library, and everyone’s face turned in his direction. “We can go back to the dormitory now.”

Technically, he hadn’t been told to tell them that, but it was a good way to get attention off of his sudden reappearance and distract them with something else to think about as everyone sighed in relief and began to get up, chairs scraping and bags slung onto shoulders.

“Oh, is that where you’ve been? Hunting the troll?” Pansy asked with a note of adoration.

He was starting to find that a trifle annoying, but as she was very pretty, only a trifle.

“No,” Draco said. “I had something else to do. The teachers have it in hand. No one’s hurt.”

“Too bad,” Pansy sniffed. “A troll’s club would have been an excellent way to deal with the excessive number of Mudbloods here. Speaking of which, here’s your book back.”

Pansy handed him the book, and Draco noticed a glittery green stain on the front of it and picked at it curiously with his thumbnail.

“Oh,” Pansy said. “I think a bit of varnish got on the cover. I was reading it just after painting my nails.”

Draco nodded, mentally reminding himself to at least attempt cleaning it off later. Normally he’d leave that sort of thing to the house-elves, but he felt as it was his parents’ book he really should oversee it himself. Pansy had not apologized yet again, another sign of her excellent breeding, but he wondered if perhaps in the case of damaging the property of a Malfoy she should have made an exception.

The brief walk from the library and down to the Slytherin common room and at last into his dormitory and finally to bed felt much longer than usual because Draco was so tired. _Leaves on the Tree of Perfection: A Wizarding Genealogy_ still looked as dull as ever. The good-sized splotch of nail varnish didn’t even disturb its heavy aura of tedium. Draco pulled out his wand, tried the cleaning charm that Flitwick and been attempting to teach them for the last week, and found that the stain disappeared easily. He mentally told himself that if his future as a high-ranking Ministry official didn’t work out, at least he was being well prepared for a career as a janitor.

He wanted to put out his candle and go to sleep. The others already had, though how anyone was sleeping through Goyle’s snoring was beyond him. But he needed to see.

He opened the book and quickly scanned the contents. The families were in alphabetical order beginning with Abbott. Draco immediately remembered the Hufflepuff girl with braids. Really? She was a pure-blood? She seemed too, well, wholesome for that. Every time he saw her he was strongly reminded of adverts for flower-scented soap. The last entry in the book was for, of course, Zabini, whom he could have guessed was pure-blood from across a room. Almost against his will, he flipped back to the Gs, not even pausing at the middle to read about his own family. He looked carefully in case some idiot hadn’t known the alphabet well enough and put the family name out of order, but no, there was indeed no Granger mentioned, the section skipping from a rather terrifying family called Gaunt to another he’d never heard of named Greengrass. There had been no mistake.

He closed the book and stared vacantly at it for a while. A sudden, mad desire came over him to throw it into the fireplace, but instead, his sense returned, and he tucked it into the drawer of his nightstand next to Persephone’s treats and his spare quills. He may perhaps have slammed it a bit harder than strictly necessary if the faltering of Goyle’s rhythmic snores was anything to go by, but Draco was asleep so quickly that he didn’t have time to contemplate that or any of his other earlier motives tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that in the video game of Chamber of Secrets, there's a different, nameless, male Muggle Studies professor, suggesting Burbage doesn't arrive until year three. I'm basically ignoring that.


	21. Quidditch Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco’s not having a very good term, and neither is the Slytherin Quidditch team.

After Halloween, Draco began wondering if someone had hit him with a very nasty bad luck jinx when he wasn’t looking. Not only had Hermione chosen to stay at Hogwarts, but after the troll incident she seemed to have taken up with Potter and Weasley, of all the idiots she could have chosen. Draco was still confused and uncomfortable because of his inexplicable desire to make sure Hermione wouldn’t become troll hash, and while he knew he should find the wizard genealogy book his parents had sent him a riveting read, he hated the thing. He’d taken to using it for a coaster for his nightly mug of cocoa, and while he realized it belonged to his parents and he should respect their property, it’s possible he might have made sure to jostle the drink onto the cover almost every evening, rendering the green binding a highly unattractive muddy shade of olive.

Then there was the first Quidditch match. Of course, Draco wasn’t on Slytherin’s team as first years shouldn’t be permitted to play, not that Gryffindor was abiding by that rule. Potter the Perfectly Popular was now a Seeker of all things. Not even a Beater or a Chaser, but basically the star of team! Draco had really been looking forward to cheering Slytherin against Gryffindor in that first match, which in retrospect should have been a clue that nothing would go right.

Potter did some stupid thing with his broom, most likely because he had no idea how to use one properly because he was raised by Muggles, and nearly fallen off the bloody thing. Either that or he was showing off and it had gone badly wrong. Whatever caused it, Potter very nearly plummeted to his death in the midst of the game. Draco admitted that while he didn’t like Potter, he also didn’t actually want him dead, and even he could see that what had happened with the broom was extremely dangerous. He’d very nearly worried about Prince Potter for a moment, but was immediately distracted, and for good reason.

He smelled smoke. 

As he turned his head, wondering where the smell was coming from, he noticed only a split second after Snape did that the Potions master’s robes had caught fire. Draco’s jaw dropped open as Snape yelled and shot to his feet, knocking over Professor Quirrell and trying to beat out the flames. As Draco gaped at the bizarre display, he caught sight for just a moment of a telltale bushy head darting away under the stands. Furious, he shot out of his seat and pelted after her. The rest of the Slytherins were far too busy staring at Potter and/or Snape to notice his abrupt absence.

“Granger!” he yelled, straining to be heard over the cheering of the crowd as he followed her down the stairs of the Slytherin stand. The lack of any wailing or gasps of horror from above to mean that Potter had apparently regained control of his broom.

Even over the loud cheers, Hermione had heard Draco, and her pace slackened. After a few more steps, she stopped at a landing and turned to face him.

“What?” she said, her eyes blazing angrily.

“Did you seriously just set our Potions professor on fire?” Draco said, deciding saying it directly was really the only option.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hermione said, turning to go.

“But I saw you!” Draco said, trotting to keep up with her. “Good Merlin, is this what running about with Potter and Weasley has done to you?”

“It’s over and no harm done, no thanks to Snape,” she said.

“No harm done? You set someone on fire!”

“It’s out, isn’t it?” Hermione said, glaring at him and starting back down the stairs. “How is what I’ve done any different from the thousand or so humiliations he likes to give out to every student who isn’t a pureblood Slytherin? Or what you do, for that matter.”

“I’ve never set anyone on fire!” Draco yelled at her, unable to get past that particular image.

Hermione stopped again so abruptly that Draco nearly ran into her. She turned slowly around.

“I suppose you haven’t,” she admitted.

She looked distinctly uncomfortable, and her gaze flickered to the stands above them.

“You’ve been horrid to me, Malfoy,” she said. “I never lied to you about who my parents are. I didn’t have any reason to because I didn’t think you were thick enough to believe blood status makes a whit of difference. I’ve done a good bit of research since then, and if parentage and ancestry are how you decide whether someone is worthy of friendship, you’d best take a long look at your own family’s background. It’s a lot worse than mine, and the stupid thing is I wouldn’t have cared about that at all. I would have judged you on yourself rather than things you can’t control. But now I know who and what you are— not your family, you—I feel like a right little fool for believing we could ever be friends.”

He sneered at her, but it was more a way of filling up the blank space because he wasn’t sure how to respond to that. What did she mean about his family’s past? They’d always been pureblood, powerful, and perfect. Obviously.

“But I am going to give you a warning,” Hermione said. “Snape’s up to something, possibly murdering Harry. I don’t like you, but I don’t want to see you dead. That’s why I set him on fire: to stop the curse he was casting that was making Harry fall off his broom. And that’s all you’ll hear from me.”

Draco watched as she jogged back towards the Gryffindor stand. Completely baffled, he began climbing back to his seat in the Slytherin section. She couldn’t possibly be right, and yet… and yet Potter certainly had regained control of his broom after Snape fell over. Hermione also wasn’t stupid, whatever her parents were. Was there even a speck of truth in what she had said? If this had been a few months ago, he knew he would have believed her immediately, but now, well, now there was still a small part of him that thought if Hermione Granger honestly believed there was a plot going on against Potter’s life, then there probably was.

He sat back down in his place only a minute before Slytherin were roundly beaten in the game because Potter caught the Snitch by swallowing it like a stray midge and then gagged it back up. Draco could almost sympathize as the final score made him feel like gagging as well. The Slytherins returned to their common room in high dudgeon, Crabbe and Goyle pounding their fists menacingly at random first year Gryffindors on the way, Pansy complaining that the cold wind had chapped her lips, and Millicent sulking so powerfully that Draco swore he saw plant life drooping in her wake. Even Zabini and Nott looked glum.

“Next year, I’m trying out for the team, and when I make it, that sort of thing is not going to happen again. Wait and see,” Draco said as he plopped down bonelessly on the couch in front of the fire. The older Slytherins had learned to give him a wide berth as far as the best seating went. 

Just then, the Slytherin team entered the room, and without exception everyone gave them absolutely filthy, freezing-cold looks. Slytherins did not tolerate failure, even among their own. Draco had learned that already at his father’s knee. All seven of them glared back and stomped off to their dormitories, and as they were all boys, the one resounding slam from their door nearly knocked a portrait of Dirkwick the Dangerous (Head Boy in 1647 and mastermind behind the Goblin Crown Jewels Fiasco of 1685, not that any Slytherin had ever divulged that information) into the fireplace. Dirkwick, for his part, made a very rude gesture at the whole room and flounced out of his painting, probably to visit one of the other portraits of people who had died long before even Dumbledore was born.

As Draco looked at the flickering embers that remained from the roaring fire earlier in the day, his thoughts went back to what Hermione had said about his own ancestors. Surely they had power, but only because they were rightfully entitled to it by blood superiority. It had to be jealousy on her part. That would be it. And yet… he was beginning to question if perhaps he’d been lied to, or at least not told the full truth, concerning a great many things. As for his godfather trying to murder an eleven-year-old, that must be completely false. It had to be.


	22. Christmas Holidays Are No Picnic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas is coming, and Draco is going home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For notes, please see chapter 1.

Draco soon found out that Slytherin’s dormitory did not remain damp all year. No, once the winter weather of Scotland started to set in, it became cold as well as damp. He’d tried pulling his chair closer to the common room fire, but it did little to help. Actually, he’d very nearly set his robes on fire, causing Crabbe to fling a full flagon of pumpkin juice on him.

“I had that completely under control,” Draco lied, wincing at the mess, then noticed Crabbe’s grumpy expression. “Still, good thinking.”

Crabbe brightened up again, then wandered off towards the kitchens for a refill on his drink. Goyle was in detention for flinging Bicorn dung at Lavender Brown in Herbology, which really had been a remarkably stupid thing to do since Sprout had been no more than three feet away at the time and couldn’t have missed his doing it even if she’d been blind. Also, the stench had clung to Goyle for hours. They’d forbidden him to enter the dormitory until he’d scrubbed with the strongest soap available.

As Draco went up to his room to change his soaking robes, he considered his options for the afternoon. He could sit alone in the common room and freeze, try to do work on his Potions essay back in the dormitories and freeze there, or he could go somewhere warm enough to restore circulation to his fingers. It really wasn’t much of a competition. Draco went out the door and began wandering through Hogwarts, which was refreshingly quiet and very nearly empty as it was a Sunday morning.

He wandered in the general direction of the Great Hall, but his mind was back on the Quidditch pitch. Though Slytherin’s loss from a couple weeks ago still stung, that wasn’t what was bothering him the most. His odd meeting with Hermione had raised questions in his mind, ones that he couldn’t answer at all. What exactly had Snape been doing? He was certain his godfather, as much as they both loathed Potter, couldn’t have been trying to kill him, and yet Draco was fairly certain that the broom really had been jinxed, not that he’d admit it to anyone. His own attempts to turn Potter into a laughing stock over that incident had backfired spectacularly, and Draco had finally shut up about it, realizing he was accidentally making Potter even more popular. But who would jinx a student’s broom? Things like that had been known to happen in professional Quidditch, though of course anyone caught doing something like that would receive a lifelong ban, as Yerevin “Swampy” Swinton had found out five years ago when he’d tried hexing the broom of a the Chudley Cannon’s Keeper, a ridiculously stupid idea since the Cannons were utterly useless at the best of times. But at school? Everyone wanted their house to win, but he couldn’t imagine anyone taking it that far. He hated Potter, but actually trying to kill the idiot really would fall under the list of things that could and should get somebody expelled. Even he would have agreed with that, though most likely silently. But someone had done it, and it was unnerving that no one had been caught yet.

If a possible attempted murderer wandering Hogwarts’ halls wasn’t enough, there had been that jibe of Hermione’s about his family’s background, suggesting that something wasn’t quite right about them. That had to be utterly untrue, of course. Both the Malfoys and his mother’s family, the Blacks, were highly regarded pure-bloods of impeccable ancestry. Still… he had no idea where the family’s money came from. It was just there. That did seem odd, the more he thought about it. 

His wanderings had taken him past the Great Hall, up the main staircase, and in the general direction of the library, so with a shrug he decided that there were worse places to be than there. For one thing, Pince always kept it as warm as toast in there to protect her precious books from damage from the cold, particularly the volumes that were bound in dragon hide and needed the extra heat. He entered the enormous room and took a deep breath of the musty air. Draco actually quite liked it there, but he usually avoided it for a good reason. Unfortunately, that reason was currently sitting at a table near the windows, her bushy head bent over a book large enough to be a dining room table in itself. She was so engrossed in her reading, though, that he was certain she wouldn’t notice him if he did nothing to draw attention to himself.

Very quietly, he crept towards Pince’s desk and cleared his throat.

“What is it?” the librarian hissed at him in what he thought was an unreasonably aggressive manner.

“I’m trying to find history books on pure-blood families,” Draco said in a whisper.

“Third row on the left, second shelf from the top, through fifth row on the left, bottom shelf, alphabetized by name of family,” Pince said automatically, glaring at him. “Do not spill anything on them, get dirt on them, or in any other way besmirch these volumes unless you want detention from now until doomsday, boy.”

She immediately lowered her head back to the stack of index cards she was sorting and ignored his existence completely. That in particular was a strange and unique sensation for a Malfoy. Obviously, the woman must be demented.

Draco moved to the section she had indicated, first taking a rather intimidating tome entitled _Toujours Pur: The Black Family in History_ from the shelves, then adding _Magic and Mayhem among the Malfoy Clan_.

“Mayhem?” Draco muttered, raising an eyebrow.

Despite the very low volume of his question, Pince shot him a glance so deadly that he was sure some of Sprout’s prized plants must have just died from being within a five mile radius of it. He bit back the urge to apologize and instead sat down and opened the book on the Malfoys first.

An hour and a half later, he put it down and stared at the opposite wall in complete confusion for the better part of another half hour. What on earth had that even been? According to this writer, for the past seven hundred or more years his family had been involved in practically every twisted, bizarre, and highly illegal activity that took place in the wizarding world and a very good portion of them amongst the Muggles as well. Malfoys (and the horror of learning he was _French_ on top of everything else!) had managed to keep their hands tidy, but their money and influence could very nearly be traced to everything from the assassination of the Muggle Archduke Ferdinand to the infamous Quidditch Cup gambling fiasco of 1822. 

However, he reasoned, it was only one book. Perhaps the writer was prejudiced against his family or even pure-bloods in general. Surely he should look at more than one source to check the matter, shouldn’t he?

As he slowly wakened out of his shocked thoughts, he noticed a piece of paper sitting next to him on the table, one that had certainly not been there when he sat down. A single glance at the tiny letters told him who had written it.

_If you want further information, I highly suggest the following works:_  
A History of the Magical World _by Ichabod Grundy_  
Pure-Blood Mania and Its Detrimental Effects on Progeny _by Tagentia Portand_  
Bloody Pure-Bloods _by Warfle Bogson_  
The Myth of the Sacred Twenty-Eight _by Melchior Twinette_  
The Blood behind the Bloodlines: A Survey in Wizarding Murder _by Alenda Issachet (pages 37 through 54 are particularly useful)_

_And for a bit of balance from the opposite side, try:_  
Pure-bloods and Poetry: The Graceful Art of Perfect Breeding _by Jennetta Yaxley_  
Leaves on the Tree of Perfection: A Wizarding Genealogy _by Hyperion Abbott_

_At least you’re thinking. That’s more than I thought you’d do._

_H._

He looked around quickly, but there wasn’t any sign of her. She’d obviously gone, probably a while ago.

He knew he should tear the note to shreds, burn them, and then flush them down a toilet. He should pour bleach on his hands to keep them from being soiled by something a Mudblood had touched. He should do anything other than what he was doing, which was folding the paper up and putting it in his robe pocket.

Feeling a little sick, he left the library, strange thoughts running through his mind that he simply wasn’t ready to pursue. The sun had long since set, and the winter wind was howling outside the castle walls. 

The Christmas holidays arrived much faster than he thought they would, and with them the promise of returning home. He missed the Manor, but more than that, he missed the sense of perfect security and safety that his childhood home now represented. It would be a holiday free of doubt and lingering suspicions, and while his godfather would undoubtedly stop by for a glass of goblin-aged mulled wine at some point, no other shadow from Hogwarts would darken the days, or at least he hoped so.

The Hogwarts Express was bustling with activity on the day the students boarded, looking forward to seeing parents, grandparents, and younger siblings who had been absent from their lives for months. Potter, of course, wasn’t one of them, and apparently the Weasleys were remaining at Hogwarts as well, as were Crabbe and Goyle. Crabbe’s mother had caught dragon pox, though thankfully a mild case with relatively few fire-breathing cough spasms, but she was contagious, so her son had to spend the holidays at school. Goyle had volunteered to remain as well to keep him company. Draco couldn’t be sure, but he thought that Goyle had actually looked relieved not to be going home. He didn’t really know much about the Goyles, just that they were pure-blood and fairly wealthy. He supposed that made everything all right with them, or rather he would have, but now he was starting to suspect those qualities weren’t an automatic guarantee of a peaceful or happy life. He made a mental note to ask Goyle about it when school started again.

The result of Crabbe and Goyle’s absence was that Draco was without his usual companions. He decided that, rather than sitting with Millicent, Pansy, Theodore, and Blaise, he preferred his own company for the ride home. He had a compartment to himself at the end of one cars, watching as the sky quickly darkened during the shortest nights of the year, and within another hour, the stars were gleaming above with surprising clarity. The snow of the Highlands glowed in the moonlight, and he let himself look out the window at the lights of towns and villages in the distance and think of nothing for a change.

He didn’t know when he’d nodded off, but a sudden jolt as the cars bumped together woke him. For a fleeting second, he thought he saw movement in the aisle next to the compartments, but he told himself it had only been his own reflection in the glass partitions. If that reflection had seemed to be female with dark, chin-length hair and a rather intense expression, he shrugged it off and soon forgot about it, lulled back to sleep again by the rhythm of the train.

It seemed like the train ride back to London took less time than the one to Hogwarts, and before he knew it, the scarlet engine was pulling into the station at King’s Cross. He grabbed his own trunk from the overhead rack, not caring if it was beneath his dignity in his desire to see his parents again at once, and jostled his way towards the door with the rest of the students. Once he was on the platform, he scanned the crowd for his father and mother, peering through the throng of students being hugged by their parents and happily bustled out the door and towards their homes, laughter and chatter following them.

As the crowd thinned, he became certain of what he’d suspected. They weren’t there.

“Master Draco?” piped a small voice beside him. “You is growing so much, I was not recognizing you! Please to be giving your trunk to Dobby.”

Draco looked at his elbow, and there stood the little house-elf, smiling up at him, but he also noticed a large plaster on his right ear.

“Where are my parents?” he asked.

“They was inevitably detained and sends their greetings to you. I is to show you to the car outside, and you is to be driven to the house,” Dobby said.

Was it Draco’s imagination or was there just the smallest note of pity in the house-elf’s voice?

“Right,” he said, handing him the trunk. He checked that no one else was about before quietly adding, “It’s good to see you again at any rate.”

Dobby blinked in surprise as Draco strode away in a fair imitation of his father.

The Rolls Royce Phantom III was waiting outside the station, and Draco got in without even pausing to admire it again. He closed the door firmly and heard the trunk go into the boot along with the quiet pop of Dobby Apparating away. That was rather disappointing. He’d actually hoped for the elf’s company on the journey home, even if they couldn’t speak at all according to the rules of society. As it was, Draco was totally alone. The driver from the previous journey had been replaced by a mirage created by a spell; the car was driving itself.

It was perhaps for the best as Draco found that the car was remarkably dusty, enough to make his eyes inconveniently watery. At least, that’s what he told himself.

When the car pulled up to Malfoy Manor, Draco waited for a house-elf to open the Rolls Royce’s door, then exited, looking completely unruffled in any way. Another elf opened the massive front door, and Draco walked into the entryway, still expecting to see his parents.

“Master Draco?” Dobby’s voice came from behind him, and Draco just managed not to jump.

“Your dinner is in the dining room. We is hoping it is not cold,” Dobby said.

“They… aren’t home, are they,” Draco said.

“No, sir,” Dobby said. “We is not to be expecting them back until very late, your father said.”

Draco nodded curtly, then went to the dining room. The single setting at the table had a portion of roast beef, potatoes, and carrots, his favorite, so perhaps they hadn’t forgotten him entirely, but a doubt crept into his mind.

“Dobby?” he called, and the elf immediately appeared beside him.

“Yes, sir?” he asked. “Is something not to your liking?”

Plenty, he thought, but he only asked, “Whose idea was it to have roast beef?”

“Dobby’s,” the elf said, bowing his head. “If I was wrong, I is sorry and shall have anything you like prepared.”

“No, it’s fine. Go,” he ordered, but almost immediately he felt the emptiness of the room again.   
“No, wait. I want bread.”

Dobby shot off to the kitchen and came back with bread. Over the course of the next half hour, Draco sent him for butter, milk, a new fork, an apple, a sharper knife, and salt. It was ridiculous, he supposed, but the elf’s constant coming and going made the room seem less vacant.

Draco ate the roast beef, but it tasted like nothing at all. When he was done, he skipped dessert entirely, then went up to his room to sleep. His pyjamas were laid out on the bed, dark green satin, waiting for him. He changed out of his school robes, dropping them tiredly on the floor, climbed into his bed, but tried not to sleep. He hoped he would hear his parents return home, even though he couldn’t rush out to greet them as it would be too undignified. He just wanted to know they were there.

He fell asleep hours later, but still before there was anything to be heard.

The next morning, he found his unpacked trunk back in his closet and a new set of robes at the foot of his bed. His old ones, he realized with some surprise, probably wouldn’t have fit him as he really had grown quite a bit since September. His stomach rumbled for breakfast, but he was half dreading going downstairs, wondering if the dining room would be empty again. However, the growling became louder and made his decision for him. He walked somewhat less confidently down the stairs, then into the dining room.

“Draco,” his mother said, rising from her seat at the table. “I was hoping to see you this morning.”

“Good morning, Mother,” he said, and he could have cursed himself for how relieved he sounded. Quickly, he tried to mend circumstances by adding in a casual voice, “I hope you slept well.”

“Adequately,” she said. “Your father and I had to attend a pre-Yule event at the Carrow house last night, and unfortunately I have business this morning in Diagon Alley while your father needed to be at the Ministry early. He has already left.”

“Would you like me to accompany you?” Draco asked, hoping for her to agree. 

“Now, now,” his mother said smoothly. “Father Christmas has a bit of shopping left, and it won’t do to have one of his recipients in tow.”

Draco nodded. It made perfect sense, of course, but he still wished he could spend some time with her.

“Might we have lunch?” Draco suggested. He barely restrained himself from adding that he’d missed her, but that seemed like he was being childish.

“I believe that would be possible at about one o’clock,” she said. “Yes, let’s do that. I will instruct the house-elves to prepare something festive, and we’ll have a small party of it, shall we?”

Draco nodded his agreement with seeming nonchalance, though the truth was he didn’t trust his voice not to crack with emotion if he’d spoken. The rest of breakfast (Scotch eggs, bacon, fried tomatoes, toast, and tea) was pleasant enough, with his mother asking how his classes were and what he thought of his professors, whether he liked his roommates and if the sweets that were delivered to him every fortnight were acceptable. In turn, he asked her about her friends and social calls, the different Yuletide parties she and father would attend, and if there was anything new about the Manor.

“We did have a spot of rather silly trouble yesterday that might amuse you,” his mother said, smiling. “That ridiculous Dobby has got himself into trouble again.”

“Oh?” Draco asked, thinking of the plaster he’d noticed on the elf’s ear the night before. “What did he do?”

“Disobeyed a direct order,” she said, cutting a tiny piece of tomato and putting it into her mouth.

“That was wrong of him,” Draco said. “What did he do?”

“You remember your Quidditch figures?” she said.

“The ones in the box in my closet?” Draco said. He was rather proud of the set as he had managed to collect nearly all the current players for the top five teams in Britain plus the Irish team.

“Yes,” she said. “I simply told him that as you are now far too old for such nonsense, he should remove them from your room and burn them in the kitchen stove along with the other things that no longer fit, robes that are too small and shoes with scuffs and such.”

Draco was stunned. He wouldn’t have told his parents, as he was sure they wouldn’t approve, but he loved those figures, and he knew from school there were any number of much older students who still collected them.

“You what?” he asked, sounding rather angry, and his mother’s eyes flashed.

“Now, I thought you’d be an adult about this,” she said. “You’re eleven years old now. Stop acting like a child! Dobby tried to hide them in his quarters instead, but of course he couldn’t stop banging his head against the walls every time I saw him because of his disobedience. After I had him confess to his crime, which really was ridiculously horrid, stealing from his family, for Merlin’s sake, I had him use the apple corer on his ear as punishment.”

Draco wasn’t able to cover his look of horror.

“Oh, I had it thrown away immediately after, no worry,” his mother said. “I really can’t imagine what’s got into that one. We may have to behead him if this keeps up. Still, I did think it rather funny that he risked punishment for a silly shoebox filled with plastic toys. Imagine! Perhaps he was going to sell them or something, so he quite got what he deserved.”

She laughed merrily, and Draco joined her, but he felt sick in the same way he had when he’d read the book on the Malfoys. A few months ago, would he have joined in with the same levity his mother showed? Had Hogwarts and distance from his family changed him, and if it had, was that even a good thing? Was he becoming a blood traitor and a freak?

“Yes, well, I do have some homework I should get out of the way before the holidays,” Draco said.

“Good,” his mother said proudly. “Your studies are important. I am very glad to see you taking them seriously.”

“I do,” he said, rising from his seat. “May I be excused?”

“Of course, dearest,” she said, angling her cheek towards him in an invitation to kiss it, which he did. “I shall see you at luncheon.”

“I will look forward to it,” he said, going up the main stairs.

His mother did not see him immediately run along the corridor, past his bedroom, without stopping until he had raced down the back staircase that led to the kitchens.

“Dobby!” he called.

“I is here, sir,” he said, coming into view immediately. “How may I be serving young master?”

He paused for a long moment, staring at the plaster on the elf’s ear.

“How long ago did that happen?” he asked, pointing to the injury.

“Two weeks ago,” Dobby said, wincing at the memory.

“Will you be able to heal?” Draco asked, then quickly amended the question. “I mean, will you be able to perform all of your duties and that sort of thing?”

“Dobby will be fine again in time,” he said. “Elves is healing faster than wizards for some things.”

Draco sighed in relief, checked to be sure they were alone.

“Just, never disobey my mother again, or my father either, okay?” Draco said. “I know what you were up to. You were saving them for me, weren’t you?”

Dobby nodded, his ears flapping sadly.

“I was being able to save one,” he said, producing it from a tattered rag he’d tucked into his pillowcase. “It is, I think, young master’s favorite.”

Draco took the filthy package and unwrapped it carefully to find Grantham Dipple, Captain of the Montrose Magpies. The figure looked up at him from the palm of his hand, wiping its face with its hands to remove the grime.

In that moment, Draco knew that regardless of what else he might receive for Christmas that year, he had already gotten his best present. Unfortunately, Dobby was currently banging his head against the wall to punish himself.

“Stop that, and that’s a direct order,” Draco said firmly, and he was glad to see that it worked. He considered his next two words carefully. “Thank you.”

Dobby looked stunned.

“But don’t put yourself at that kind of risk again,” Draco said. “Mother is seriously considering beheading you, I think, and if I’m away at school, I won’t be able to do anything to stop it. You understand?”

“Dobby understands the young master,” he said.

“Tell absolutely no one else of this conversation,” Draco said. “That’s another direct order.”

“Dobby will keep silent,” he said.

“Good,” Draco said, turning to go.

“Happy Christmas, sir,” Dobby called after him.

He stopped, but did not turn around. Then quietly, under his breath, he mumbled, “Happy Christmas, Dobby.”

Draco returned to his room and took out his school books, then seated himself at his desk with parchment and quill, facing the door so that he would know if anyone entered. He opened his Transfiguration textbook to the chapter on turning needles into matches and began the essay McGonagall had assigned. As he wrote, he felt Dipple’s figure fidgeting in his pocket. Draco sighed. By now, his mother was certainly gone to Diagon Alley and he was alone in the house. He closed his bedroom door and took out the little figure, holding it in the palm of his left hand. He gazed at it loving for a moment, then flicked his wand quickly.

“ _Incendio_ ,” he said, and for the briefest moment he saw the figure’s shocked face before he was reduced to ashes.

He knew it would have been too dangerous for Dobby if he had kept it, but he still fought not to cry. 

He had lunch with his mother, who talked about a series of shallow pleasantries and a list of the things she purchased for his father and a few other wealthy friends or distant relations. His own shopping had been done months ago through catalogues, pre-wrapped and ready for the tree. He kept waiting to feel he was back home again, but he felt like something was missing. Even his father’s long-awaited arrival for dinner that night didn’t banish the feeling, and when Draco went to bed that night, he was forced to admit that neither of them had changed. He had. And it had made him lose his home somehow.

The rose garden was protected from the winter chill by a perpetual warming charm, and the white roses were always in bloom. He didn’t know why, but Draco was drawn to the ruins that night, and he got out of bed, rather thrilled to know he wouldn’t be punished for breaking school rules, and wandered down to the gardens in his pyjamas and a heavy coat. He hadn’t quite mastered Warming Charms yet and was in no mood to deal with setting himself on fire, particularly as Crabbe wasn’t there with a mug of pumpkin juice this time.

He looked at the blooms, still open in the moonlight, perfectly white flowers against the perfectly white snow. They were beautiful, he thought, utterly perfect without the smallest blemish. Or without even the smallest sign of reality. They were forced into a state of completely unnatural flawlessness, nothing of which was real. It was the wrong season for roses, the wrong time of day for them to be open. Even their color was a spell to remove any hint of pigment, including in their stems and leaves. They looked like they were made of snow and ice: beautiful, hard, and cold.

He was looking at his whole life if he followed what his parents wanted, and he nearly started to wretch. 

He went back into the house, cold from the top of his head to his toes, but the warmth of the Manor didn’t thaw him at all. It wasn’t that sort of chill.

In later years, when he tried to remember that Christmas, he could never bring out the details. He vaguely recalled getting a new set of Quidditch balls and the latest broom, and his mother was suitably happy with his present to her of a diamond solitaire pendant surrounded by peridots set silver, while his father had murmured quiet appreciation of his gift of a silver letter opener set with emeralds that formed a snake along its length. His pocket money was essentially bottomless. He assumed they had the traditional pudding and biscuits, but it all blended together into nothing.

Mostly, he remembered wishing he were back at school.

The days dragged until his mother kissed him goodbye and said she would miss him (his father was at the Ministry again), but some part of him doubted she would even as he said he’d miss her as well. Then the self-driving Phantom III had dropped him off at King’s Cross with his trunk, and he’d boarded the Hogwarts Express again. The students aboard were a gloomy group. They didn’t want to go back, and he caught a few sniffling over leaving family and friends behind. Draco would have very much liked to have said he felt the same.

He sat with Blaise and Nott for a while, listening to them go on about presents and dinners and the awful homework they’d had to do over the break, chiming in with correct replies whenever they were warranted. Pansy and Millicent had taken off to the train’s girls’ loo to fiddle with new lipsticks and perfumes for the rest of the ride.

“I’m exhausted,” Draco finally said. “I just can’t keep my eyes open after all the holiday stuff my parents and I did together. It really was a brilliant holiday, best ever. I think I’ll sit in the back car and nap.”

The other two nodded, and Draco went to the last car, sat down, and watched the same journey from a few weeks ago pass his windows in reverse. He did try to sleep, but he kept having nightmares lately about carnivorous roses that dripped white blood, so he was awake when a tap came at the compartment door.

He turned to see Hermione Granger standing there. He didn’t say she could come in, but then he didn’t say she couldn’t either, so she opened the door.

“What do you want, Granger?” he said.

“Did you read any of the books?” she asked.

“What’s it to you?” he said.

“Because I happen to miss you,” she said, “at least I miss the person I thought you were, and I’m hoping you’ll see sense and stop being such a gigantic arse all the time.”

“Nice language,” he said.

“Better than some of yours,” she said.

“Yeah?” he said, and suddenly the confusion and anger he’d felt through his whole holiday came spilling out. “Well, at least I have a proper family! We had a lovely Christmas with presents move expensive than anything you’ll ever see, and parties with the finest families, and we laughed and laughed at the stupid things Muggles and Mudbloods do. Did your pathetic family do anything at all, Granger?”

“We had a nice, quiet Christmas,” Hermione said, her voice oddly level. “We played board games and went to a pantomime and visited with my grandmother, then made snowmen and had a snowball fight in the garden. I wouldn’t trade it for anything, not even a Christmas dripping with diamonds.”

Her gaze suggested she was seeing right through his act.

“Have a good new year, Draco,” she said. “I intend to.”

She left, closing the door behind her, and he muttered to himself, “Why did you have to spoil everything?”

Through the glass window, he saw her pause for the briefest moment in the corridor beside the compartments, just long enough that he knew she had heard, but she then walked away, back towards the other car, leaving him alone.


	23. I Swear I Saw a Dragon!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco is confronted with a highly intriguing proposition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For notes, see the first chapter. The chapter's title is taken from Disney's _Pete's Dragon_.

The new year at Hogwarts began, and Draco was not happy. In fact, he was miserable, which he hated, so he did the only thing that made sense: he tried to make everyone else around him equally miserable, especially everyone he irrationally blamed for making him question every part of his existence.

So, rather than doing as Hermione had requested and returning to the boy he’d once been or at least seemed to be, he flung himself hard in the opposite direction. It never occurred to him as running away. If it had, he might have been horrified as Malfoys were, of course, not cowards, or so he had been endlessly told. Granted, he’d also never been told they were thieves, racketeers, and murderers, maybe even worse if that was possible, so perhaps “coward” wouldn’t have been so terrible of an addition.

But he started seeking out the weakest in the pack with predatory focus. He supposed that technically Hufflepuffs should have been his dominant targets given that goal, but his heart wasn’t really in it. What was the point of seeing if he could make Justin Finch-Fletchley cry? Of course he could. So could Snape, McGonagall, and on at least one occasion a very surprised and horrified Flitwick who had apologized so profusely for speaking too sharply that he’d nearly started sobbing himself. As for Ravenclaws, he hated to admit it even to himself, but there was something a little frightening about them. That many highly intelligent people all in one house could be working on almost anything, up to and including finding out the most damning secrets of anyone who crossed them. Draco therefore gave them a wide berth. Slytherins were, obviously, out of bounds, even if there were more than a few he was beginning to dislike heartily.

That left Gryffindors. More specifically, Gryffindors who were either blood traitors or Mudbloods. Or Neville Longbottom, whom he still couldn’t believe was a pure-blood. There must have been some sort of mix-up with his parentage. Maybe he’d been swapped at St. Mungo’s when he was born and there was someone walking around thinking he was a very gifted descendent of mediocre background when he was actually a Longbottom. No wizard with that sort of prime ancestry should have that much difficulty casting the simplest spells.

Then again, if being a pure-blood wasn’t a guarantee of perfect wandwork, being a Mudblood didn’t automatically make someone an inept troll either, he reminded himself. Not that he needed reminding of that during every single bloody class he had with Granger. Perhaps she was the one who’d been swapped at birth? It would make his own life a lot easier if it turned out she’d been adopted or abducted or some variation on a changeling or anything that rearranged her family tree. That would mean things would make sense again. And that would be beyond nice.

Obviously, therefore, that was impossible.

So Draco became such a horrendous brat that he even started to hate himself. He flung curses at Longbottom in the corridors with abandon and waged ludicrous gossip campaigns against Potter that had absolutely no basis in fact but were generally swallowed whole by the Slytherins. His current favorite was that Potter was secretly Fudge’s illegitimate son, though anyone who’d seen a photograph of James Potter would have known in an instant that was concocted. Harry and James might as well have been twins born a couple decades apart, well, except for the eyes. He supposed those must have come from his mother.

Eventually Malfoy got into a fight in the stands at a Quidditch match with Neville and the youngest Weasley at the school. He pulled Crabbe and Goyle into the battle once Draco came to the surprising realization that Longbottom was capable of causing fairly extensive damage with his wand, not so much with magic but as a surprisingly effective stabbing instrument. Ron, on the other hand, was a bloody dirty fighter, something he would have normally respected, but seeing as it was Weasley, Draco just hated him worse than before if that were possible. While Longbottom tottered away from the encounter towards the Hospital Wing with a bloody nose, barely conscious, Draco was nursing the start of a black eye and at least three large, wand-shaped bruises on his ribs. He sneered at the Gryffindors as he left. The pain almost felt good. At least it wasn’t complicated, even though he was sure his father would have been horrified if he’d been caught brawling like a common Muggle. Something about that thought felt good too.

When he entered the common room, Pansy was gazing at him adoringly as though he were carrying the wounds of a great battle. He liked the attention, of course, particularly as Slytherin’s defeat by Gryffindor meant no one was getting any other glory. But it was empty. 

The truth was he was lonely, not that he’d admit it. While Pansy was appropriately worshipful, she was also so boring that he sometimes wondered how he managed not to fall asleep whenever she opened her mouth. As far as he could tell, she had no interests to speak of besides nail varnish and the newest robes. Crabbe and Goyle were worthy bodyguards, but trying to have a conversation with them about anything more complicated than breakfast or the weather was impossible. His loneliness made him angrier, more determined to be the biggest bully in the school, which had the effect of making most people stay away from him, which made him lonelier yet, and the whole thing just repeated. He found himself hoping school would end soon so he could return home, only to be reminded of how awful the holidays had been. He didn’t see the slightest bit of light anywhere, and it was getting steadily worse.

That’s when he took to very quietly slipping away from the rest of the Slytherins. He became remarkably good at simply dissolving out of a room, no magic involved, just extricating himself from any attention and disappearing rapidly down the nearest corridor. Then he wandered. First it was aimlessly, or so he told himself. If he happened to wind up in the library, it was only because he wanted to read one of Hydrangea Stonewater’s newest adventure novels, not because of anyone else who might be there. If he sat at a table in an unobtrusive corner, deep in shadow, and occasionally glanced over the pages to see someone else reading on the far side of the library, lost in a book probably the size of a paving stone, it wasn’t because some bit of him was pretending that they were reading together despite the distance. Really.

At least she never caught him staring, which was a mercy, and Weasley and Potter tried to stay out of the library as much as possible, so there was little chance of running into them. But then they started showing up as well, obviously looking for something specific and talking loudly enough that Pince pitched all three of them out more than once.

Weasley and Potter in the library looking for something that obviously even Hermione couldn’t find? Draco’s interest was piqued, and as he had been bored for a truly inordinate length of time, he decided it was entirely in the interest of the school, the Ministry, and the world in general to stick his nose into their business and find out what the two idiots and the Mudblood mastermind were plotting. It could be insurrection. It could be a campaign to overthrow the ministry. Hell, at this point they could be plotting how to get more pudding and he wouldn’t complain about wasting his time. He’d never been so bored.

He took to following them. Not Granger. She was far too observant. And not Potter, since he drew a sizable crowd regardless of what he did. Instead, he carefully began tailing Ronald Weasley. For quite a while, the only thing he found out was Weasley seemed to spend a good deal of his time avoiding his older brothers, particularly Percy (he really couldn’t blame him there as he was the definition of a prat), and that he was practically glued to Potter and Granger the most of the time. Draco was just about to try finding another hobby, anything, possibly even sinking as low as Gobstones, when he unexpectedly struck gold.

Peering through the filthy glass window of the caretaker’s hut, Draco was absolutely delighted to see Hagrid and the three others grouped around what was obviously a newly hatched dragon. Potter looked confused, Weasley mildly interested, Hagrid ecstatic, and Granger, as usual the only one with half a brain in the room, alarmed.

“Hagrid,” he heard her say, muffled though the glass, “how fast do Norwegian Ridgebacks grow, exactly?”

Draco thought that was only part of the trouble as the tiny dragon started sneezing sparks at them. The dragon trade was completely illegal. He’d actually asked for a dragon for his fifth birthday and received a “no” in response for one of the few times in his life, though that could have been less out of respect for the law and more an effort to prevent burning down Malfoy Manor. Draco had no idea where the egg had come from, but this was easily enough to get Hagrid sacked and the other three put into detention for weeks, possibly even expelled. He would be entirely glad to see Granger leave Hogwarts so that he would have no reason to think about her ever again and his life could go back to normal.

With a sickening thud in the pit of his stomach, he admitted how much he now hated normal.

At that precise moment, Hagrid saw him, as did the others, and Draco took off running towards the school at top speed. He knew, and they knew that he knew, and he knew that they knew that he knew. On the whole, there was a great deal of knowing, but the one with all of the power was, to his immense surprise, himself.

He didn’t stop running until he was back in his dormitory. It was empty, and he slammed himself down on his bed and stared out the window.

He could do it.

He could get rid of all of them: the Mudblood, the blood traitor, the oaf, and even Potter himself. It was all in his hands. 

His father would be proud of him. 

Draco began to imagine a wonderful scene. He was carried into the Great Hall on the shoulders of the tallest Slytherins, the rest crowding around them and cheering his name ecstatically, followed by a particularly raucous round of “For He’s a Jolly Good Wizard.” As he was deposited at the Slytherin table, the mail would arrive, and with it a large package addressed to Master Draco Malfoy, Esq., in familiar handwriting. He would tear it open to find a racing broom so phenomenal that it hadn’t even been introduced to the public market yet, ten pounds of Dobby’s best sweets, and three hundred Galleons glistening in an emerald green velvet pouch. A letter would be there also, the exact opposite of a Howler, and it would open itself to the sound of golden trumpets.

“My dear son,” it would say in his father’s magically magnified voice, “I am so very proud of the great service you have done to the wizarding world by removing these odious interlopers from our beloved Hogwarts. You are a credit to our entire family. Your mother joins me in saluting you for your success. Congratulations, Draco.”

Then it would explode into a storm of multi-colored confetti as he was surrounded by raucous cheers again.

It was a wonderfully clear daydream, so real that he could almost swear it was happening, and perhaps that was why his imaginary self glanced over at the Gryffindor table and noticed three vacant places, one of them somehow seeming even emptier than the others. The fluttering confetti suddenly became less bright, the cheers out of tune, and the grin that had been plastered onto his face faltered.

Draco opened his eyes to find Persephone sitting at the end of his bed and regarding him quizzically.

“Here for a treat?” he asked, sounding sour. “It’s the only reason you ever stop by.”

The owl pecked his foot as though he was stupid for thinking such a thing, then fluttered up to his bedside table and stared at him with huge, luminous eyes.

“What?” he said, then shook his head and scratched her under her beak fondly. “How is it you always seem to know when to show up?”

Persephone made no answer but emitted a quiet chirping noise that wasn’t all that different from a cat’s purr. At least something in this world liked him without his having to destroy people’s lives to get their approval.

“It’s a dangerous animal,” he said quietly. “That idiot should realize a dragon really could hurt someone.”

Persephone hooted quietly as though in agreement.

“He can’t let it stay here,” he said, trying to think things through. “She’s right, of course, as usual. It’s going to grow quickly. Once it’s too enormous, either everyone will know or they’ll have got rid of it somehow.”

Persephone tilted her head at an odd angle.

“Okay, for now, I’ll wait. I can keep my mouth shut for a bit and see what happens. Maybe they’ll do something stupid and get themselves thrown out without my doing anything, so it won’t be my fault,” he said, then slowly grinned. “Of course, there’s no law that says I can’t make them all sweat for a while wondering what I’m going to do or when. That might be amusing.”

Persephone gave his hand a sharp nip that nearly drew blood, but Draco only gave her a mouse-flavored pellet and she flew off.

For a solid week, not much happened. He would dramatically turn around from his cauldron in Potions class while Snape’s back was turned and give the three of them a particularly evil smile whenever he had the opportunity. Potter and Weasley would look furious, but Hermione would blanch the color of the froth on her potion. This was getting to be fun.

Nearly a week went by, and Draco reveled in the thought that he could save or damn them at his whim at any moment. That’s when a letter arrived by Persephone one morning at breakfast. He had been hoping for a note from his mother, but the plain envelope, when opened, was written in tiny handwriting that he remembered only too well.

_D_

_I need to speak with you. You know about what. Please meet me at 6:00 this evening outside Greenhouse One. Thank you._

_H_

He stared at the words, stunned by the sheer audacity at her requesting a private audience with him. It was utterly ridiculous.

“Who’s the letter from, Draco?” Pansy said, sitting across from him. “Not bad news I hope.”

“Why would you think that?” he asked as he deftly slipped the letter into his bag.

“Because your face is turning colors,” she pointed out, handing him a pocket mirror, which she always seemed to have handy.

Draco glanced in it and realized he had indeed gone red. He couldn’t very well control whether he was flushing or not, but it still annoyed him.

“Nothing too horrid,” he said. “Just a note from home. Mother isn’t happy with my Transfiguration grade.”

It was a terrible lie as he was standing near the top of the class, save for one other person who would remain nameless, and he didn’t mean the Dark Lord.

“For mercy’s sake, what does she want you to do? Stuff your head with so much nonsense that you turn into someone as boring as Goody-Goody-Granger?” Pansy said, giggling maliciously, and he joined in with relish.

“Probably. You know how mothers are,” he said.

“Oh, mine isn’t like that,” Pansy said with a sniff. “She’s told me how humiliated she would be if I’m in the top half of the class. A proper lady doesn’t concern herself with study. It’s enough that’s she pretty and rich, well, and of a good family, of course.”

“Of course,” Draco said, though he couldn’t help feeling a sense of vague horror at what Pansy’s mother was molding her to be. Then again, he thought, was what his parents were doing all that different?

That very uncomfortable thought was probably why Draco ended up standing outside of Greenhouse One at precisely 6:00. He heard her footsteps before he saw her, and he made sure not to turn around, hoping it looked like he just happened to be casually peering through the glass panes at a Flutterby Bush that was beginning to bud and his being here at a time that coincided with her note was entirely accidental.

“Malfoy,” she said, and he did turn around now as there was no other alternative. “Thank you for coming. I didn’t really think you would.”

“Save your breath, Granger,” he said, and even he was surprised by how venomous he sounded. “I had something to do here. That’s all.”

“Of course,” she said, and he knew she hadn’t believed him. “But still, you know why I sent you the note.”

“I assume you mean the dragon currently roasting the Keeper of the Keys,” Draco said, smiling viciously again. “Yes, I suppose you would want to discuss that.”

“Why haven’t you said anything yet?” she asked.

“Is waiting for the other shoe to drop becoming too much for your delicate Mudblood nerves?” he said, laughing.

Hermione sighed, then sat on the bench next to the door and stared at the ground.

“I want you to say something,” she finally said.

Draco blinked at her. He hadn’t been expecting that.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because I’m honestly afraid someone is going to get hurt,” she said, looking up, and he did see fear in her eyes. Draco actually took half a step toward her, then stopped himself. She was a Mudblood. He wasn’t supposed to feel concern for her even if she were bleeding to death.

“What do you mean?” he asked, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.

She paused for a moment, looking torn, then said very quickly, all in a single breath, “Hagrid’s a very nice person, really he is, but he’s not thinking logically. He’s wanted a dragon since he was little, and he’s so thrilled by it that he’s not noticing that it’s getting too large, and it’s biting and spitting sparks that are starting to turn into actual flames, and he lives in a wooden house, and he keeps thinking it’s some sort of overly large dog or a frisky horse or something and honestly I don’t think he knows just how dangerous it is! Someone could honestly get killed!”

Draco frowned.

“Why not run and tell McGonagall yourself then?” he asked.

“If anyone finds out what Hagrid’s done, and they undoubtedly will, keeping an illegal dragon on school grounds where anyone could stumble on it, he’d be sacked,” she said.

“And of course that would be an epic tragedy,” he said snidely.

“It would,” Hermione said firmly. “He’s good at what he does, Draco, and he loves animals a great deal, so much that he does foolish things to help them. That’s not the worst crime someone can be guilty of committing. On top of that, this is the only home he’s known since his father died when Hagrid was at school, and I don’t know how he’d survive outside of Hogwarts. I’m still hoping someone can come up with a plan to convince him to get rid of it before anything has to be done, but if not, someone has to tell when the dragon isn’t anywhere near him, and I don’t know how to do that yet.”

Draco stared at her. She was honestly worried about what would happen to the man. It was, well, oddly touching. If she’d been pure-blood, even half-blood, he might have been able to feel some small bit of empathy for Hagrid, but as it was, he very firmly told himself he did not.

“That someone is supposed to be me, I take it,” he said.

“It would make sense,” Hermione said.

“It would keep your so-called friends from hating you, you mean,” Draco said.

“That too,” she admitted. 

“And keep you out of trouble,” Draco pointed out.

“No,” she said. “I’m aware there needs to be a sacrifice made here. I’m willing to take the blame for it. I have good enough marks that one infraction shouldn’t be enough to get me thrown out of school. Besides, I know you’d enjoy seeing me get into trouble, so there’s your payment.”

Draco took a moment to close his jaw. This was the least boring day he’d had in at least four months, maybe longer.

“Let me get this straight,” he said. “You’re willing to let me get you caught with an illegal dragon if it means the overly hairy gamekeeper can keep his job?”

“And no one accidentally gets killed by a dragon, yes,” she said, “provided we don’t come up with another way of getting rid of Norbert.”

“Norbert?”

“The dragon,” she said.

“The dragon is named Norbert?” 

“I didn’t choose it!” she said. 

In spite of himself, Draco started to laugh, and after a few seconds, he heard her snort, then join in too. It really was absolutely ridiculous.

“Fine,” he said, still chuckling a bit. “We’ll give it a week. If you find a way to get rid of ickle Norbert, send me a piece of blank parchment via owl at breakfast. If not, then straight to the stake with you, Mademoiselle Jeanne d’Arc, complete with your own personal dragon to light the fire.”

She looked uncomfortable, but nodded.

“I’d say thank you, but this seems an odd thing to thank someone for,” she said.

For one moment, as the last of the spring sunshine caught her in profile, he almost forgot what she was. He hadn’t laughed at anything for so long that he was nearly giddy off it, and the level of self-sacrifice she was willing to give for her idiotic friends, though he didn’t understand it at all, was admirable. For that split second, he liked her again, but it was only a second. His treacherous feelings terrified him so much that he blurted out the worst thing he could think of to insult to her.

“Don’t thank me, you pathetic sow!” he said. “You just handed me everything I need to destroy you, as you should be. Never presume to speak to me again!”

He stalked off impressively through the evening dusk, not bothering to turn around and see her face. Granted, it would have been slightly more impressive if he hadn’t walked directly into a wall on his way out, but perhaps she hadn’t noticed.

The very next day, another letter came for him at breakfast. He glanced at it casually, not allowing his curiosity to betray him, then opened it to reveal a blank sheet of parchment. Well, that had been quick.

“How odd,” Blaise said when he threw it in the middle of the table.

“Yeah,” Draco said, sneering at the paper. “Odd. Someone’s playing a very stupid joke.”

The blank parchment lay on the table between the strawberry jam and the toast. There was nothing at all on it, not a dab or ink or a single mark, nothing. Just endless, bland, pure paper. Draco tried very hard not to make a comparison between the paper and his life, but only succeeded in feeling more sullen than usual.

The day stretched on, and nothing happened. Pansy appeared to apply her own weight in lip gloss every few hours, Crabbe was puzzled by how a quill worked, Goyle stared out a window for five minutes before noticing it was raining, and Binns droned on and on about the life of Helga Hufflepuff, who sounded like she might have been happier as a baker than a founder. Draco tried stirring up trouble, but there weren’t any likely targets. He considered skiving off classes to wander about the library, but even that seemed flavourless. 

For several days, Draco wandered the corridors of Hogwarts, occasionally leering at Weasley or Potter, but now that the dragon was obviously gone, there was no point to it. Then he had the extremely bad luck to knock directly into Weasley in the Charms corridor, and the contents of both of their bags had scattered all over the floor.

“Watch where you’re going, you idiot!” Draco yelled as he scrambled to stuff everything back in his bag, even though he was fairly certain it was his own fault.

“You’re one to talk, Malfoy,” Weasley said, jamming books and bottles of ink into his own satchel. As he did, Draco noticed that his hand was extremely puffy and looked infected. In fact, it was turning green. “All the grace of the giant squid, you’ve got.”

Draco threw him a scathingly nasty glare as he took off down the hallway. He had a free period next and was planning on spending it in the owlery, sending Leaves on the Tree of Perfection back to his mother with a polite note. When he got there, he couldn’t find the book anywhere. He dug through it like a deranged Niffler, eventually dumping the whole mess back out again on the floor for the second time that day. As the luminous eyes of the owls looked on, he slowly came to the horrible realization that Weasley had his book.

“Ugh,” Draco said, shoving everything back in again. “I’m actually going to have to speak to him.”

The book was not only his mother’s, but it was obviously expensive, probably even irreplaceable. He had meant to leave it at home over the holidays but had completely forgotten its existence, which wasn’t hard to do as it was deeply boring. He had occasionally wondered if there might be a Sleeping Charm on it.

Later that day, he tried to track down Weasley, but he was nowhere to be found. Eventually he swallowed his own pride enough to ask his older brother Percy where Ron was.

“Not that it’s anyone’s business, but I’ve heard he’s in the Hospital Wing,” he said pompously, “so it’s better to leave him alone.”

The Hospital Wing? Draco remembered the hand he’d seen earlier and decided that must be why, but more than that, he realized in retrospect that it looked very much like Weasley had been on the receiving end of a nasty bite, and not by something a first-year was likely to run into in class.

A dragon bite. It had to be. Which meant that the parchment Hermione had sent him days earlier signifying that the dragon had been got rid of had either been premature or an outright lie. With a spring in his step, Draco completely ignored Percy’s suggestion of respecting Ron’s privacy and went immediately to the Hospital Wing.

“Pardon me, Madam Pomfrey,” Draco said, putting on his most charming manners, “but I understand my friend Ronald is here, and I need to get a book back from him, please.”

Madam Pomfrey raised an eyebrow at him suspiciously, but waved him through.

Weasley, whose hand was now bright green, was lying in one of the beds and staring up at the ceiling morosely.

“Hurt, Weasley?” Draco said with mock pity. “You’ve got one of my books from when you blundered into me earlier this morning. I need it back.”

“Eat dung, Malfoy,” Ron said through gritted teeth. “I’m not in a state to deal with you.”

“Really?” Draco said, leaning closer. “Well, I certainly hope you get over this soon. What a horrid bite. It would be a shame if it were to… drag on.”

It really was an awful pun, but Weasley turned paler, making his freckles look as though they’d been drawn on, which was worth it.

“Dog. Just a bite off a stray dog,” Weasley said.

“Of course,” Draco said, looking at the hand again. “A Norwegian dog, perhaps? One that has unusually poisonous teeth, too, dear, dear. How very unfortunate.”

Ron said nothing at all this time, and Draco grabbed the book from his bag, which was lying next to the bed.

“There, now I’ve got what I want,” Draco said. “If I were to lose this, Mother would be simply furious, absolutely breathing fire at me, but then you know exactly what I mean, don’t you.”

“You have it, so go,” Weasley said.

“Of course,” Draco said smoothly. “For now.”

As he exited the room, he felt sure his father would have applauded his performance.

Draco hurried back to the owlery and was just about to slip the book into an envelope when a piece of paper fell from between its pages. Momentarily horrified by the thought one of the pages had come loose, he grabbed it only to realize it was a note addressed to Weasley from someone named Charlie—most likely one of the numerous Weasley clan.

His eyes flicked back and forth over the letter, and he quickly realized the dragon wasn’t gone yet but would be leaving the next night via the Astronomy Tower. He shuddered. That wasn’t his favorite place anymore. Not that it ever had been, he lied to himself. Ron was apparently supposed to bring the dragon to the tower, though that was obviously impossible now; his hand looked like a train wreck. Draco would actually feel sorry for him if he weren’t a Weasley. That meant Potter would be taking the dragon to the tower. Surely it couldn’t have got so large it would need more than one person, would it? The letter implied Ron alone would be bringing the dragon in the original plan. Potter might be on the small side, but he could surely handle a dragon alone better than Hermione could. Hagrid was out of the question since he would draw far too much attention.

So, Saint Potter and the dragon. It sounded like a Medieval legend, and one that might end in a horrible bloodbath. Hagrid wouldn’t be there, Hermione was out of the way, and provided that Potter was caught with the dragon prior to going to the Astronomy Tower, Charlie’s friends wouldn’t be implicated either.

Draco smiled as he put the book into its envelope and called Persephone to him with a treat.

“Don’t try reading this while you’re flying,” he cautioned her. “You’ll nod off from boredom and might fly straight into a mountain.”

Persephone certainly looked like she rolled her eyes at him as she took off, but Draco was in a much better mood. With any luck, Potter would be expelled, there wouldn’t be any residual damage, and his father might even be proud of him. 

As usual, Draco had not counted on the fact plans never quite go exactly as expected.

In retrospect, as Professor McGonagall dragged him down the corridor by his ear the following evening, he really shouldn’t have attempted turning Potter in after curfew. McGonagall now also seemed to be weighing the possibility he was delusional and had been hallucinating seeing a dragon, something even Draco had to admit did sound far-fetched now that his proof was nowhere to be found. Added to that, Potter seemed to have magically disappeared. He must have backed out of delivering the dragon since Draco had been lying in wait for him for over an hour without seeing a trace of him, and there was no other way up to the tower.

But when Draco was told that not only did he have detention for being out of bed after hours but that somehow Potter, Granger, and Longbottom of all people would be joining him for also “coincidentally” roaming about the castle at all hours on the same night, he threw up his hands in despair at ever being able to understand anything that went on at Hogwarts.


End file.
